THE 

Life  and  Adventures 

OF 

"NED  BUNTLINE" 


By 
FRED  E.  POND 

("Will  Wildwood") 


^ 


COL.   EDWARD   Z.   C.  JUDSON 
("NED    BUNTLINE") 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES 
OF  "NED  BUNTLINE" 

WITH 

Ned  Buntline's  Anecdote  of  "  Frank  Forester  " 
And  Chapter  of  Angling  Sketches 


By  FRED  E.  POND 

("Will  Wildwood") 

Editor  of  "  Frank  Forester's  Fugitive  Sporting  Sketches," 
"  Sporting  Scenes  and  Characters,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CADMUS  BOOK  SHOP 
1919 


•.-•"•":       •    • 

•••••     •••-•  -.  •.-. 


OF  THE   LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF 

NED  BUNTLINE 

TWO  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY  COPIES 
HAVE  BEEN  PRINTED  FROM  TYPE 
AND  THE  TYPE  DISTRIBUTED.  . 


Table  of  Contents 


Introduction 1 

Anecdote   of  Frank  Forester 4 

CHAPTER  I 
Boyhood,   Early  Adventures,  and   First  Story f 

CHAPTER  II 
In  the  Seminole  War  and  in  Gotham 24 

CHAPTER  III 

The     Novelist's     Intense     Patriotism — "Ned     Buntline's 
Own" 45 

CHAPTER  IV 
Life  in  the  Adirondacks — A  Hunter's  Home 55 

CHAPTER  V 
Ned  Buntline  in  the   Civil  War 6S 

CHAPTER  VI 
Unjust  Imprisonment   of   Ned   Buntline 74 

CHAPTER  VII 
With  "Scouts  of  the  Plains,"  and  at  Home 84 

CHAPTER  VIII 
Later  Years — Personal  Reminiscences 100 

CHAPTER  IX 
Ned   Buntline  as  An   Angling  Writer 109 

CHAPTER  X 
Ned    Buntline   as   a   Writer   of   Verse 1 19 

CHAPTER  XI 
Closing  Years  of  a  Remarkable  Career 126 

Books  by  Ned  Buntline 139 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Portrait  of  Col.  Judson — "Ned  Buntline" Frontispiece 

Portrait  of  H.  W.  Herbert — "Frank  Forester. .  .Facing  Page  4 
Portrait  of  Seth  Green Facing  Page  111 


I  — 


INTRODUCTION 

The  life  history  of  Col.  Edward  Zane  Carroll 
Judson  ("Ned  Buntline")  is  more  thrilling  than 
romance,  as  his  career,  from  boyhood  to  middle 
age,  was  a  succession  of  adventures  by  land  and  sea; 
as  a  sportsman  and  angler  in  the  then  primitive  wil 
derness  and  lake  region  of  the  Adirondacks,  as  a 
midshipman  in  the  navy,  a  soldier  in  the  Seminole 
war,  the  Mexican  war,  the  four  years  of  warfare 
between  the  North  and  South,  and  finally  in  the  In 
dian  wars  of  the  wild  west. 

Colonel  Judson's  record  should  have  lasting  fame 
— first,  for  his  unfaltering  Americanism  and  his  in 
fluence  for  loyalty  in  the  times  that  literally  tried 
men's  souls;  then,  on  account  of  his  really  remark 
able  literary  achievements  in  the  line  of  realistic 
romance,  bringing  into  world-wide  fame  the  last  if 
not  the  most  notable  of  American  scouts  and  fron 
tiersman— "Buffalo  Bill,"  "Wild  Bill,"  "Texas 
Jack,"  and  other  fearless  scouts  of  the  plains,  whose 
deeds  of  daring  were  no  less  thrilling  than  those  of 
Daniel  Boone  and  Kit  Carson  in  an  earlier  era;  and 
last,  but  of  equal  interest  to  all  lovers  of  out-door 


••    :  : 


—  2  — 

sports,  his  graphic,  delightful  sketches  relating  to 
shooting  and  fishing,  with  his  personal  reminiscences 
of  some  of  the  pioneers  of  American  sporting  litera 
ture. 

Considered  in  the  light  of  realistic  fiction,  Ned 
Buntline's  sea  tales  and  border  romances  will  com 
pare  favorably  with  the  best  of  J.  Fenimore 
Cooper's  celebrated  novels — in  fact  it  is  safe  to  state 
that  in  the  remarkable  series  descriptive  of  the  ad 
ventures  of  the  scouts  of  the  plains  the  popular 
stories  written  by  Ned  Buntline  had  far  greater  de 
gree  of  accuracy  as  to  depicting  real  scenes  and  in 
cidents  than  any  of  Cooper's  tales.  Priority, 
rather  than  preciseness  of  work;  studious  care  in 
preparation,  in  place  of  a  hastily  written  and  volum 
inous  amount  of  fiction,  to  meet  the  demand  of 
press  and  public — these  conditions  combine  to  give 
the  earlier  novelist  more  enduring  fame. 

The  series  entitled  "Life  and  Adventures  of  Ned 
Buntline"  first  appeared  in  fPildwood's  Magazine, 
and  the  limited  edition  now  published  in  book  form 
— with  some  additional  reminiscences  and  an  enter 
taining  "Anecdote  of  Frank  Forester,  by  Ned  Bunt- 
line" — may  serve  to  interest  the  enthusiastic  col 
lectors  of  personal  memoirs  of  noteworthy  men; 
writers  who  have  not  only  put  forth  a  liberal  amount 
of  stirring  fiction,  but  have  led  adventurous  lives 
similar  to  those  represented  in  their  novels.  If  con 
sidered  from  this  viewpoint  alone,  Colonel  Judson 
would  stand  at  the  head  of  American  novelists,  as 


3 

no  other  has  shown  such  a  wonderful  career  of  real, 
often  reckless  daring  as  he  whose  name  was  known 
to  comparatively  few  while  his  nom  de  plume  (uNed 
Buntline")  at  the  height  of  his  success,  was  known 
to  millions;  but  fame  is  fleeting,  and  the  man  of 
phenomenal  energy,  of  dauntless  courage,  of  once 
national  reputation,  now  rests — almost  unknown  to 
the  younger  generation — in  the  shadow  of  his  loved 
home  "The  Eagle's  Nest,"  in  the  Highlands  of  the 
Hudson. 


ANECDOTE  OF  FRANK  FORESTER 


By  NED  BUNTLINE 
(Col.  Edward  Z.  C.  Judson) 


Y  EARLY  association  with  Henry  William 
Herbert  ("Frank  Forester")  is  indelibly 
impressed  upon  the  tablets  of  memory.  I 
remember  the  sporting  author  as  a  digni 
fied,  scholarly  gentleman,  warm-hearted,  a 
brilliant  conversationalist,  full  of  anecdote  and 
sporting  reminiscences.  Snobs  were  his  aversion. 
Generous  to  a  fault,  he  would  give,  not  share,  his 
last  dollar,  when  any  worthy  person  was  in  need 
and  came  under  his  notice.  His  cosy  country  seat, 
"The  Cedars,"  on  the  Passaic  River,  near  Newark, 
N.  J.,  was  the  retreat  for  not  only  many  wealthy 
and  distinguished  friends,  but  also  for  more  than 
one  unfortunate  or  unlucky  man  of  letters,  whose 
literary  efforts  had  been  poorly  rewarded.  Though 
English,  and  aristocratically  so  by  birth,  he  was 
much  attached  to  America  as  the  home  of  his  adop 
tion.  All  his  works  show  this.  Yet  he  was  very 


HENRY   WILLIAM    HERBERT 
("FRANK  FORESTER  •) 


5 

sensitive,  and  any  apparent  slight  or  laek  of  courtesy 
on  the  part  of  others  was  not  lightly  or  easily  for 
given.  His  over-sensitive  nature  often  involved  him 
in  heated  controversies,  and  even  quarrels,  in  regard 
to  his  native  land,  England.  The  writer  found  this 
•out  in  a  strange  way.  At  a  dinner  party  given  by 
William  T.  Porter,  of  the  Spirit  of  the  Times,  at  the 
Carlton  House,  New  York,  where  Herbert  boarded, 
there  were  present,  if  I  remember  correctly,  Pap 
Richards,  of  the  Spirit;  Charles  Elliott,  the  great 
portrait  painter;  Lewis  Gaylord  Clarke,  editor  of 
the  Knickerbocker  Magazine;  Dempster,  the  com 
poser  and  balladist;  "Frank  Forester,"  and  the 
writer  hereof. 

The  dinner,  strictly  game,  was  profuse  and  ele 
gant,  and  after  the  cloth  was  removed  songs  and 
stories  were  called  for.  Dempster  sang,  Clarke  told 
some  of  his  inimitable  anecdotes  and  then  called  on 
the  writer  for  a  French  story  he  had  once  heard  him 
tell.  Not  for  an  instant  thinking  of  giving  Herbert 
offense,  the  story  was  told.  It  was  of  a  French 
man  who  had  been  captured  by  the  British  frigate 
Guerriere,  telling  of  the  capture  of  the  latter  by  the 
American  frigate  Constitution,  in  the  war  of  1812. 
It  ran  thus : 

"Shentilmens !  Wen  ze  Yankee  Doodle  natione 
was  'ave  ze  war  wiz  ze  John  Bull  natione,  I  was  in 
Havre  wiz  my  leetle  breeg,  La  Belle  Julie.  And  I 
sink  I  will  make  one  grand  speculatione.  I  load  my 
breeg  wiz  a  beautiful  cargo  of  ze  wine,  ze  brandy 


—  6  — 

and  ze  sausage  de  Bologna;  and  I  make  sail  for 
Amerique  to  sell  zem.  Four,  five  days  I  sail  along 
finely,  zen  along  come  one  John  Bull  freegat,  and 
she  go  boom  wiz  her  big  gun  and  I  stop  my  leetle 
breeg.  Zen  a  John  Bull  officiare  he  come  on  board 
my  breeg  and  he  say: 

"Sare !  I  'ave  ze  onare  to  take  possessione  in  ze 
name  of  his  Brittanic  Majesty. 

"I  reply:  'Sare!  I  very  much  oblige  to  heez  Brit 
tanic  Majesty.'  Mon  Dieu !  I  was  not  oblige  at  all. 

"Zen  he  remove  plenty  of  ze  brandy  and  wine  to 
ze  John  Bull  freegat,  and  he  remove  me  and  my 
men  and  make  fire  to  my  breeg,  and  send  her  to 
Davy  Jones'  lockare.  Mon  Dieu — I  was  more  mad 
az  I  can  speak.  I  look  at  my  poor  breeg,  and  I 
swear  and  tear  my  hair  and  weep  like  as  one  foun- 
taine! 

"Zen  ze  John  Bull  capitan  he  come  to  me  and 
say:  'Nevare  mind — zis  is  but  ze  fortune  of  war!' 

"  'Aha !'  I  reply  to  heem — 'it  is  one bad  for 
tune  !' 

"Then  he  say:  'Cheer  up!  Come  in  ze  cabin  and 
take  some  brandy  wiz  me.'  ' 

"I  sank  him,  I  sink  I  will.  Zen  I  go  in  ze  cabin 
and  he  pour  for  me  and  for  heem  each  a  glass  of 
brandy.  Zen  I  say  to  him : 

'  'Sare — your  varee  goo't'  hel't!'  (good  health) 
and  he  say  to  me  ze  same. 

"I  taste  of  zat  brandy.  Sacre !  I  throw  it  on  ze 
floor.  I  spit  it  from  my  mouth.  Zat  John  Bull 


capitan  have  ask  me  zare  to  drink  my  own  brandy. 

"At  zat  moment  a  John  Bull  sailare  cry  out — 
'Sail  ho.' 

"Capitan  Dacre — zat  was  his  name — he  go  out 
and  wiz  his  glass  see  one  Yankee  Doodle  freegat 
come  zat  way.  He  cry  out : 

"  'Clear  ze  sheep  for  actione!  Give  ze  men 
some  of  zat  Frenchmen's  brandy,  for  to  make  zem 
brave.  In  ten  minutes  from  ze  first  gun  I  shall 
wheep  zat  Yankee  Doodle.' 

"I  no  say  nothing,  but  I  pray  ze  Bon  Dieu  ze  boot 
go  on  ze  ozzare  leg. 

"By  and  by  ze  freegat  came  close,  and  boom! 
boom !  go  ze  guns.  I  'ave  some  business  away  down 
to  ze  bottom  of  ze  freegat  right  away.  I  'ave  no 
business  where  come  ze  shot  like  hail — no  sare! 
After  a  leetle  while  I  hear  no  more  ze  boom  of  ze 
big  guns,  and  zen  I  go  on  ze  deck.  Oh!  Mon  Dieu ! 
what  a  beautiful  sight.  Ze  deck  it  was  covare  wiz 
dead  John  Bull  mens.  Ze  masts  zey  were  all  gone ! 
Ze  John  Bull  flag  was  pull  down,  and  a  Yankee 
Doodle  officaire  come  in  one  boat  and  say: 

"  'I  have  ze  honare  to  receive  possessione  of  your 
sword,  Capitan  Dacre.' 

"He  look  very  mad,  and  I  say: 

'  'Nevare  mind,  Capitan  Dacre — zis  is  ze  for 
tune  of  war.' 

'  'One  curseed  bad  fortune,'  he  reply." 

"I  say  to  heem:  'Capitan,  drink  a  leetle  of  my 
brandy.  It  will  cheer  you  up.' 


—  8  — 

"He  say  to  me:  'Go — to — ze — d — // 

"I  say:  'No  sare!  I  will  go  to  ze  Yankee  Doodle 
freegat  wiz  you,  for  your  old  f reegat  is  full  of  holes, 
and  soon  she  will  go  down  to  Davy  Jones'  lockare  to 
look  for  my  leetle  breeg.'  ' 

This  was  all  the  story,  and  it  brought  laughter 
from  every  one  but  Herbert.  He  was  silent,  and 
looked  very  grim.  The  party  broke  up  soon  after, 
and  I  was  astonished  the  next  morning  by  a  note 
from  Herbert  to  this  effect: 

"If  I  thought  Englishmen  needed  brandy  to  make 
them  brave,  I  could  be  convinced  to  the  contrary  by 
naming  a  friend  to  arrange  preliminaries,  etc." 

I  was  never  more  surprised  in  my  life,  and  I  went 
right  over  to  the  "Spirit  of  the  Times"  office  to  see 
Porter.  While  he  and  I  were  laughing  over  the 
matter,  Herbert  himself  dropped  in.  I  walked  up  to 
him  with  the  note  in  my  hand  and  told  him  sincerely 
that  I  had  no  thought  of  reflecting  on  English  cour 
age,  and  that  the  story  was  only  an  old  one  dressed 
over  to  show  the  amusing  side  of  the  broken  French 
idiom. 

Herbert  was  all  right  in  a  second,  and  four  of  us 
adjourned  next  door  to  smile  over  what  could  have 
been  made  a  serious  affair  had  either  party  been 
foolishly  punctilious. 


CHAPTER^  ONE 

BOYHOOD,  EARLY  ADVENTURES,  AND 
FIRST  STORY 


N  a  picturesque  vale  among  the  mountains 
of  the  Catskill  range,  near  the  head 
waters  of  the  Delaware  river,  lies  the  quiet 
village  of  Stamford,  noted  for  its  health 
ful  location,  and  the  lovely  scenery  of  the 
surrounding  country,  but  more  widely  celebrated  as 
the  birth-place  and  home  of  "Ned  Buntline.n 

Mr.  L.  Carroll  Judson,  a  sturdy,  intellectual  rep 
resentative  of  an  old  and  honored  family — tracing 
descent  from  "the  Puritan  forefathers" — came  to 
Stamford  in  an  early  day  and  made  his  home  in  the 
highlands.  Like  the  rigid  stock  of  old  Plymouth, 
he  was  a  stern  and  unyielding  man,  cold  and  me 
thodical,  with  intense  energy,  a  will  of  iron.  His 
household  was  regulated  by  rules  which  were 
deemed  as  immutable  as  the  laws  of  the  ancient 
Medes  and  Persians,  and  this  strict  discipline  was 
held  to  be  highly  commendable  by  the  ultra-moral 
ists  of  that  day.  At  times  he  would  exhibit  the 


—  10  — 

warmer  impulses  of  his  nature  by  generous  deeds 
and  kind  words,  genial  as  the  glimpses  of  sunshine 
that  break  through  threatening  clouds.  A  lawyer  by 
profession,  he  was  a  man  of  literary  taste,  and  gave 
evidence  of  considerable  talent  in  this  direction  by 
the  publication  of  several  books — chiefly  historical 
and  practical  works.  One  of  these,  entitled  "The 
Sages  and  Heroes  of  the  American  Revolution/*  has 
been  widely  read  and  is  still  frequently  quoted.  The 
taste  for  literature  and  scholarship  may  be  men 
tioned  as  a  family  characteristic,  reaching  in  indi 
vidual  instances  a  high  degree  of  merit — as  evinced 
in  the  career  of  Adoniram  Judson,  the  famous  mis 
sionary.  Mr.  L.  Carroll  Judson's  work  in  the  line 
of  authorship  was  undertaken  as  a  diversion  or  re 
laxation  from  his  legal  pursuits — in  which  he  at 
tained  a  high  reputation. 

Amid  such  surroundings  and  influences  Edward 
Zane  Carroll  Judson — the  "Ned  Buntline"  of  later 
years — was  born  March  20,  1823.  A  terrible  storm 
prevailed  on  the  night  of  his  birth.  Dr.  Howard, 
who  was  present  on  the  occasion,  relates  that  it  was 
a  wild,  dark  and  fearful  night,  the  flood-gates  of 
Heaven  appeared  wide  open,  the  wind  swept  over 
the  mountains  and  along  the  valley  with  the  fury  of 
a  tempest,  while  the  vivid  flashes  of  lightning  and  re 
verberations  of  thunder  made  the  spectators  tremble. 
This  circumstance  was  impressed  upon  the  mind  of 
young  Judson,  who  often  heard  the  incident  men 
tioned,  and  it  caused  a  foreboding  that  his  journey 


—  II  — 

of  life  would  be  equally  turbulent  and  tempestuous; 
a  prediction  that  was  fully  verified.  At  a  later  period 
he  gave  a  vivid  description,  in  verse,  of  the  memora 
ble  night  and  his  stormy  career.  The  little  poem  is 
entitled  "March-Born,"  and  the  first  stanza  runs  as 
follows : 

Born  when  tempests  wild  were  raging 

O'er  the  earth,  athwart  the  sky, 
When  mad  spirits  seemed  as  waging 

Battle  fierce  for  mast'ry ; 
Born  when  thunder  loudly  booming 
Shook  the  roof  above  my  head — 
When  red  lightning  lit  the  gloaming 
Which  o'er  land  and  sea  was  spread. 

In  1826  his  father  removed  to  Wayne  county, 
Pa.,  then  almost  a  wilderness,  and  young  Judson 
learned  his  first  lessons  from  the  glowing  leaves  of 
the  grand  old  book  of  Nature.  He  was  a  born 
hunter  and  angler.  The  trout  streams  of  that  sec 
tion  were  abundant,  and  Ned  loved  nothing  better 
than  to  drop  an  occasional  line  to  his  finny  friends 
in  the  depths,  while  the  fish  responded  to  his  kind  at 
tentions  by  coming  out  of  the  wet.  Ned's  pro 
pensity  for  playing  truant  sometimes  led  to  a  rather 
severe  chastisement,  as  his  father  believed  firmly  in 
the  old  creed:  "Spare  the  rod  and  spoil  the  child." 
The  son  was  a  convert  to  the  same  belief,  but  pre 
ferred  to  use  the  rod  himself  in  whipping  the 
streams  for  trout. 

The  lad  inherited  the  same  spirit  of  determina 
tion  that  was  displayed  by  his  sire,  and  to  this  was 


—  12  — 


added  Spartan  courage  and  endurance.  He  did  not 
rebel  against  paternal  authority,  but  continued  by 
hook  or  crook  to  go  a-fishing.  His  skill  with  the 
rod  and  gun  finally  won  his  father's  admiration. 
Before  he  was  six  years  of  age  he  learned  to  shoot 
well  with  a  heavy  rifle  which  he  could  not  hold  at 
arm's  length,  and  therefore  fired  it  at  rest  over  a 
log  or  fence  rail.  When  eight  years  of  age  his  dis 
play  of  markmanship  so  pleased  the  elder  Judson 
that  he  purchased  a  seven-pound  rifle  for  Ned,  who 
went  out  at  dawn  the  next  morning  and  killed  a  fine 
doe  in  a  field  near  the  house.  "From  that  time  to 
the  present  day,"  said  Ned  Buntline  in  writing  to  a 
friend,  in  1878,  "I  have  been  a  hunter."  These 
hunting  exploits  and  fishing  jaunts  awakened  in  the 
lad  all  the  latent  love  of  adventure  that  was  to  form 
the  more  thrilling  and  romantic  portion  of  his  life's 
record. 

The  wild,  roving  life  of  a  young  woodsman  had 
become  so  thoroughly  congenial  to  young  Judson 
that  he  had  mentally  decided  to  follow  the  illustrious 
example  of  Daniel  Boone,  when  all  his  anticipations 
were  dashed  to  the  ground  by  removal  of  the  family 
to  Philadelphia.  Here  his  father  found  a  wider 
field  for  the  practice  of  law,  and  as  Ned  progressed 
rapidly  in  his  studies  the  proud  sire  resolved  that 
the  boy  should  be  put  through  a  course  to  prepare 
him  for  the  legal  profession.  The  dry  tomes  of 
Blackstone  and  Coke  proved  utterly  distasteful  to 
Ned,  and  he  finally  refused  to  continue  the  obnox- 


—  13  — 

ious  studies.  His  father,  indignant  at  this  defiance 
of  paternal  authority,  gave  the  lad  a  severe  flogging, 
and  told  him  the  studies  must  be  at  once  resumed. 
Ned  had  firmly  resolved  never  to  become  a  lawyer, 
and  the  severe  punishment  caused  him  to  run  away 
to  sea  for  the  purpose  of  becoming  "a  sailor  on  the 
high  seas."  He  had  for  some  time  secretly  cher 
ished  an  ambition  to  visit  distant  lands,  and  he  now 
embraced  the  opportunity  to  ship  as  cabin  boy  on  a 
vessel  about  to  sail  around  Cape  Horn.  At  this 
time  he  was  but  eleven  years  of  age,  though  remark 
ably  strong,  active  and  self-reliant.  The  voyage  was 
rough  and  much  of  the  romance  of  sea-life  was 
found  to  be  "the  baseless  fabric  of  a  dream;"  yet 
the  scenes  and  adventures  of  a  life  on  the  ocean 
wave  proved  irresistible  to  one  of  his  stirring  tem 
perament.  Upon  returning  to  Philadelphia  he  was 
met  by  his  father,  who  coldly  said: 

*  "So,  sir!  you  have  returned?  I  suppose  you  are 
sick  of  the  sea,  and  are  willing  to  ask  my  forgive 
ness;  and  if  I  permit  you  to  come  home,  to  do  as  / 
wish,  not  as  you  will, — eh?" 

"No,  sir,"  answered  Ned,  calmly  but  proudly; 
"no,  sir;  I  ask  no  home  from  you.  I  have  found  a 
dearer  home  on  the  breast  of  the  glorious  ocean; 
cordial  friends  and  honest  men  share  with  me  my 
oaken  dwelling;  and,  sir,  here  none  dare  strike  me; 
no  one  would  strike  me;  they  all  love  me  too 
dearly." 

*The  incident,  as  here  given,   appears  in  "Ned  Buntline's  Life 
Yarn,"  a  serial  story. — F.  E.  P. 


—  14  — 

"Is  this  your  choice,  degenerate  boy!  A  life  of 
hardship  and  peril,  shared  with  such  associates;  is 
this  the  life  which  you  choose  in  preference  to  one 
of  luxury  and  ease,  where  you  would  have  nothing 
to  do  but  to  study?" 

"Father,  a  life  of  honor  with  these  rough  men, 
a  life  of  peril  and  hardship,  in  preference  to  a  life 
of  luxury,  where  in  a  fit  of  hasty  anger  I  may  be 
struck  to  the  earth  like  a  refractory  slave;  any  life, 
sir,  but  that!" 

"Boy,  do  you  know  my  power  and  my  rightful 
authority?  Do  you  know  that  I  could  drag  you 
home  tied  like  a  felon  and  lock  you  there?" 

"Sir,  do  so!  bind  and  bar  me;  but  remember,  no 
locks,  bonds  or  bars  can  bind  my  spirit.  It  is  free; 
free  as  the  glad  albatross  that  shines  far  and  wide 
over  the  ocean,  and  sleeps  when  it  will  on  the  bosom 
of  the  wave  that  feeds  it.  Exercise  your  'rightful 
authority/  sir,  if  you  choose;  but  bind  me  strong 
and  bar  me  well.  I  love  the  ocean!  The  sea  is  my 
home;  and  beware,  sir,  lest  I  seek  it  again,  in  spite 
of  bolts  and  bars.  Love  like  mine  defies  both." 

"Boy,  it  is  well !  You  have  chosen !  Never  enter 
my  house  again.  From  this  moment  I  disinherit  you 
forever!  Not  one  farthing  of  mine  shall  ever  cross 
your  palm!  Now,  sir,  enjoy  your  'prospects;'  en 
joy  your  'association !'  ' 

"It  15  well,  my  father — father  no  longer.  I  have 
anticipated  your  kind  disinheritance.  Since  you  dis 
graced  me  with  a  blow,  I  have  not  borne  your  name. 


My  energies,  my  hopes,  my  ambition,  and  all  of  the 
man  which  God  has  given  me,  will  carry  me  alone 
through  the  world.  'Resurgam'  is  my  motto — in 
dependence  my  character!  Farewell,  sir;  you  might 
have  made  me  all  you  could  have  wished — now  I 
will  make  myself!'' 

The  father  turned  sternly  away  and  strode  up  the 
wharf.  The  son  turned  tearfully  around  toward  the 
captain,  who  met  him  with  open  arms. 

"Ned,  cheer  up,  my  boy!"  said  he;  "I'll  be  your 
father  now.  Cheer  up !  We  sail  to-morrow,  with  a 
load  of  flour  for  Rio  de  Janeiro.  If  you  want  any 
thing,  run  down  to  my  locker  and  get  some  money, 
and  go  ashore  and  buy  it;  there's  the  key.  Come, 
boy,  don't  be  down-hearted.  Grief  is  like  an  anchor 
in  the  hold,  where  it  can't  be  got  at;  it  only  weighs 
down  the  ship,  without  being  of  any  use !" 

Ned  brightened  up;  he  felt  that  he  was  friendless, 
but  he  did  so  long  to  see  his  sister  and  mother. 

But  a  truce  to  sadness,  and  ho !  for  the  merry 
sea. 


The  next  year  he  enlisted  as  an  apprentice  on 
board  a  man-of-war,  says  an  intimate  friend  and  fel 
low-midshipman,  who  thus  describes  young  Judson's 
courage  and  coolness  in  the  face  of  danger:  "He 
was  large  for  his  age,  strong  as  a  horse,  and  preco 
cious.  One  day  a  boat  of  which  he  was  coxswain 
was  run  over  by  a  Fulton  ferry-boat  on  the  East 
river,  and  upset  in  floating  ice.  She  drifted  down 


toward  Governor's  Island,  in  New  York  bay,  and 
Judson  managed  to  get  ashore  with  the  whole  crew. 
Then  he  fainted  under  his  injuries  and  was  taken 
back  to  the  Macedonian  unconscious.  The  crew 
were  so  loud  in  their  praises  for  rescuing  a  couple  of 
them,  that  the  officers  united  in  a  request  to  have 
him  made  a  midshipman,  and  President  Van  Buren 
sent  on  the  commission  within  a  fortnight. 

"Then  we  young  middies  whose  appointments  was 
due  to  'influence'  refused  to  mess  with  him,  because 
he  had  been  a  common  sailor  before  the  mast.  On 
the  way  to  the  Gulf  squadron,  on  the  ship  of  war 
Levant,  where  our  refusal  was  made  known  to  him, 
young  Judson  challenged  thirteen  of  us  in  a  day. 
Some  withdrew  their  refusals  and  associated  with 
him,  but  seven  of  the  midshipmen  fought  him,  one 
after  the  other,  in  Florida,  in  New  Orleans,  and  in 
Havana.  He  didn't  get  a  scratch,  I  believe,  but 
four  of  his  adversaries  were  marked  for  life.  To 
the  satisfaction  of  everybody  in  the  navy  he  estab 
lished  the  presumption  that  he  was  as  good  as  any 
body.  Perhaps  one  circumstance  that  reduced  the 
number  of  midshipmen  that  he  had  to  fight  was  a 
little  exhibition  on  the  way  down.  The  captain,  who 
made  a  kind  of  pet  of  the  boy,  hung  a  bottle  out  on 
the  yard  arm,  and  Judson,  at  the  word  of  command, 
broke  the  bottle  with  one  bullet  and  cut  the  string 
above  it  with  another.  That  was  the  first  intimation 
we  had  that  he  was  even  at  that  age,  one  of  the  best 
shots  in  the  United  States.  He  was  at  this  time 


— 17-- 

only  fifteen  years  of  age,  a  fact  that  I  can  vouch 
for,  being  one  of  the  seven  who  fought  him  on  the 
way  down  to  the  gulf." 


Two  years  later  an  incident  occurred  which, 
though  trivial  in  itself,  changed  the  whole  of  Ed 
ward  Judson's  after  life — transforming  him  from  a 
seaman  to  a  novelist.  A  change  had  been  made  in 
the  command  of  the  ship,  and  the  new  captain,  un 
like  his  predecessor,  was  a  severe  disciplinarian,  and 
disliked  young  Judson  for  his  independent  manner 
and  the  influence  he  had  gained  among  his  fellow 
midshipmen.  The  serio-comic  incident  referred  to 
may  be  best  told  in  Ned  Buntline's  own  graphic 
words,  as  related  to  a  friend  who  asked  him  concern 
ing  the  origin  of  his  literary  career.  The  anecdote 
is  as  follows: 

UTHE  CAPTAIN'S  PIG" 

At  the  time  I  wrote  the  first  letter  or  word  for 
the  press  I  was  a  midshipman  in  our  navy.  I  en 
tered  the  navy  when  I  was  little  more  than  a  child. 
I  had  sailed  round  the  world  when  I  was  eleven 
years  old,  was  promoted  to  midshipman  when  I  was 
thirteen.  I  never  got  promoted  by  act  of  Congress 
or  Congressmen.  My  naval  academy  was  hard  ex 
perience  in  storms  on  deck  and  aloft,  or  as  they  call 
it,  "before  the  mast."  I  was  thrown  in  the  com 
pany  of  a  sort  of  naval  aristocracy — sons  of  rich 
men  who  had  won  their  shoulder-straps  by  paper 


—  iS  — 

certificates.  They  oftentimes  insulted  me  and  re 
fused  to  mess  with  me  because  I  had  worked  my  way 
up.  I  never  was  a  man  disposed  to  command  re 
spect  through  love  and  fawning.  If  one,  two  or 
three  insulted  me,  I  would  knock  them  down.  If 
they  kept  out  of  my  way  I  would  challenge  them  to 
fight  in  the  first  harbor  we  landed.  Often  the  very 
fact  of  the  challenge  commanded  their  respect  and 
they  would  take  measures  to  apologize  before  we 
reached  a  port.  I  have,  however,  been  forced  to 
command  the  respect  of  seven  of  my  equals  by  meet 
ing  them  in  mortal  combat — four  of  whom  I 
wounded;  with  the  three  others  I  exchanged  shots, 
unharming  or  unharmed,  but  in  every  case  receiving 
their  apology. 

I  have  thus  been  particular  in  stating  the  manner 
in  which  I  obtained  the  respect  of  my  associates,  be 
cause  it  was  on  their  account  that  my  future  trouble 
arose  which  resulted  in  exchanging  the  pistol  for  the 
pen.  While  these  officers  became  my  warmest 
friends  an  event  took  place  which  proved  that  I  had 
an  enemy  in  the  after  part  of  the  ship  in  the  person 
of  the  captain.  We  were  at  the  time  cruising  in  the 
Gulf,  and  although  only  fifteen  years  of  age  I  was 
commissary  of  that  department  of  the  man- 
of-war  that  included  all  the  midshipmen.  Our 
ship  entered  the  port  of  Vera  Cruz  in  Mexico, 
and  while  there  the  chief  commissary,  whose 
duty  it  was  to  provide  for  the  officers  of  the 
ship  above  the  rank  of  midshipmen,  and  my- 


—  19  — 

self  went  ashore  to  purchase  supplies.  Among  other 
necessaries  that  we  purchased  were  six  pigs  of  the 
same  age,  the  offspring  of  the  same  mother.  They 
were  of  the  same  size  and  as  white  as  snow,  except 
that  one  had  a  small  black  spot  on  one  leg.  We 
divided  them,  then  and  there,  each  taking  three  and 
each  paying  a  half  of  the  purchase  price.  They 
were  put  into  separate  boxes  and  put  with  our  other 
purchases  on  board  of  the  ship.  I  noticed  in  the 
division  that  the  one  with  the  small  black  spot  came 
to  my  share.  I  was  very  proud  of  them,  and  gave 
charge  that  they  be  well  taken  care  of.  I  often 
visited  them  and  took  satisfaction  in  pointing  them 
out  as  beauties  to  some  of  my  associate  middies. 
On  our  return  to  Havana  a  terrible  squall  sprang 
on  us  in  the  night  time.  The  deck  was  swept. 
When  morning  came  it  was  discovered  that  one  box 
with  its  three  pigs  had  been  swept  overboard,  that  a 
slat  of  the  other  box  had  been  broken  off  and  two 
of  the  pigs  had  got  out  and  had  followed  the  other 
three.  The  only  pig  left  from  the  deck  wreck  was 
the  one  with  the  black  spot  on  the  leg.  I  ordered 
the  box  to  be  repaired  and  the  pig  to  be  taken  care 
of  as  before.  To  my  surprise  the  chief  commissary 
claimed  the  pig.  I  pointed  out  the  black  spot  on 
the  leg.  He  claimed  never  to  have  noticed  it  be 
fore.  I  pointed  out  the  difference  between  the 
boxes,  and  that  mine  was  on  deck  and  his  was  not. 
He  was  as  obstinate  as  he  was  dishonest,  and  noth 
ing  but  that  pig  would  satisfy  him.  I  was  just  as 


—  2O  — 

determined  that  he  should  not  have  it.  Another 
squall  seemed  inevitable,  for  I  would  have  fought 
for  that  pig,  and  was  getting  ready  for  the  fray, 
when  a  proposition  was  made  to  leave  our  dispute 
to  the  captain,  who  was  approaching,  having  heard 
something  of  our  altercation.  I  acquiesced.  With 
pretended  sincerity  he  wished  to  hear  the  evidence. 
On  my  part  it  was  overwhelming.  I  proved  by  a 
number  of  middies  that  before  the  storm  I  was  in 
possession  of  the  pig  with  the  black  spot  on  the  leg. 
That  the  box  was  the  same  in  which  my  three  had 
been  kept.  I  also  proved  the  same  by  the  scullion 
who  fed  them.  Against  all  this  positive  evidence  the 
chief  commissary  could  only  interpose  a  claim  that 
the  pig  was  his,  without  the  least  proof  to  substan 
tiate  it.  Nevertheless,  the  captain  decided  against 
me.  If  he  decided  in  my  favor,  no  part  of  that  pig 
would  go  to  the  saloon  tables,  and  he  would  get  none 
of  it.  I  claimed  that  the  decision  proceeded  from 
his  belly,  not  from  his  head  or  heart.  I  made  a 
show  of  full  surrender ;  still  I  determined  to  keep  my 
eyes  on  the  pig  with  the  design  of  ultimately  getting 
my  hand  upon  it.  Fearing  another  storm,  or  some 
surreptitious  act  on  my  part,  or  at  least  on  my  part 
of  the  ship,  it  was  cunningly  devised  at  a  conspiracy 
in  the  saloon  among  the  chief  officers,  including  the 
captain,  that  the  pig  should  be  disposed  of  that  day. 
Accordingly  the  butcher  was  ordered  to  kill  and 
dress  it.  A  banquet  was  to  be  held  in  the  saloon 
that  night.  I  also  determined  that  a  banquet  should 


—  21  — 

be  held  in  the  forward  cabin,  and  that  if  roast  pig 
did  not  form  the  principal  viand  I  should  be  the  per 
son  to  be  held  accountable.  I  made  every  prepara 
tion  that  the  occasion  should  be  a  success.  I  had  all 
necessary  luxuries  except  wine,  and  this  I  begged, 
borrowed  or  bought  from  the  chief  steward,  with 
the  full  intention  of  never  paying  for  it,  for  I  was 
determined  that  the  luxuries  of  the  banquet  should 
be  drawn  from  the  captain's  and  chief  commissary's 
larder  and  wine-room.  I  purposely  passed  and  re- 
passed  that  galley  while  that  pig  was  roasting.  I 
knew  the  progress  that  it  was  making  as  well  as  the 
cook  did.  I  had  my  guests  at  the  table  in  good  sea 
son,  several  of  whom  I  had  fought  against,  all  of 
whom  I  was  now  fighting  for.  I  had  a  number  of 
the  most  expert  middies  to  act  as  carvers.  The  time 
of  our  banquet  was  Kalf  an  hour  earlier  than  the  one 
in  the  saloon.  I  again  patrolled  the  deck.  Pass 
ing  the  galley,  I  saw  the  cook  try  the  pig,  and  leave 
the  oven  door  open,  with  a  half-suppressed  expres 
sion  of  satisfaction  that  the  roasting  was  ended.  I 
had  only  to  watch  my  opportunity  for  the  cook  to 
absent  himself  to  assist  in  the  preparation  of  the 
saloon  table.  I  had  not  long  to  wait — then  with  a 
large  fork  I  whipped  the  pig  from  the  hot  pan  into 
a  cold  one  and  instantly  placed  it  on  a  side  table  in 
the  cabin.  I  gave  the  watchword,  "Root  hog,  or 
die."  A  neater  or  cleaner,  and  to  me  a  more 
satisfactory  job  never  was  accomplished.  Half 
an  hour  was  passed  before  the  pig  was  missed, 


—  22 — 

another  half  in  search  for  it  in  every  place  but  the 
right  one.  A  report  was  then  made  to  the  chief 
commissary  and  to  the  captain.  To  say  that  they 
were  exasperated  is  putting  it  light.  A  search  was 
made  for  bones,  but  they  had  joined  their  kindred 
in  the  gulf.  The  captain  offered  $100  for  evidence 
that  would  convict  the  person  that  took  the  pig.  In 
due  time  we  reached  Havana.  The  captain  had 
kept  up  a  good  deal  of  growling,  and  was  especially 
surly  when  I  was  near  him.  It  was  my  duty  here 
also  to  go  on  shore  and  provide  for  my  department. 
When  I  approached  the  gangway  I  was  stopped  by 
the  guard.  I  demanded  by  whose  authority  I  was 
stopped;  he  said  by  the  captain's.  I  replied:  "I  get 
my  authority  from  the  commander,  not  the  captain/' 
and  drawing  my  sword,  I  said:  "If  you  raise  your 
musket  to  my  breast  again  I'll  cut  you  down  as  I 
would  a  piece  of  old  junk."  I  passed  on,  went  on 
shore,  did  my  marketing,  and  returned.  In  due  time 
we  reached  Savannah.  I  had,  during  shore  hours, 
written  a  full  account  of  the  adventure  with  the  pig. 
I  entitled  it  the  "Captain's  Pig,"  by  "Ned  Buntline." 
The  story  made  a  pretty  good-sized  pamphlet.  It 
was  printed  privately,  as  publishers  were  afraid  of 
libel  suits.  Neither  the  author  nor  the  publisher 
was  known.  When  the  captain  saw  the  pamphlet 
he  was  madder  than  when  he  didn't  see  the  pig  on 
his  table.  He  again  offered  a  reward  of  $100  for 
the  name  of  either  the  author  or  publisher.  He 
found  neither.  The  book  is  now  out  of  print,  and 


—  23  — 


I  would  myself  give  Sioo  for  a  copy  of  it.  This  is 
the  story  of  my  first  venture  in  writing,  and  this  is 
why  I  am  called  "Xed  Buntline." 


The  first  literary  production  of  young  Judson 
brought  him  at  once  into  popularity,  as  it  was  repub- 
lished  in  many  periodicals,  and  finally  appeared  in 
the  old  Knickerbocker  Magazine,  then  conducted  by 
Lewis  Gaylord  Clarke,  who  at  the  first  opportunity 
engaged  "Xed  Buntline"  as  a  regular  contributor. 
Whether  ashore  or  afloat,  he  thenceforth  found  time 
to  prepare  thrilling  romances — principally  tales  of 
the  sea,  during  the  early  portion  of  his  literary  ca 
reer — and  these  novels  were  read  by  a  host  of  warm 
admirers,  who  found  the  scenes  as  realistic  as  any 
ever  portrayed  by  Captain  Marryatt  or  Fenimore 
Cooper. 

At  the  outbreak  of  the  Seminole  War,  in  Florida, 
the  adventurous  spirit  of  young  Judson  carried  him 
enthusiastically  into  the  strife.  Although  only  six 
teen  years  of  age  he  served  with  valor  and  distinc 
tion  under  Jessup,  Gaines,  Armistead  and  Worth. 
He  recorded,  subsequently,  the  delight  with  which  he 
engaged  in  the  field  sports  of  that  section,  on  every 
possible  occasion,  and  mentioned  particularly  the 
killing  of  a  very  large  jaguar,  or  Southern  panther, 
on  Key  Sargo — an  achievement  that  was  alike  the 
envy  and  admiration  of  his  associates. 


CHAPTER^  TWO 

IN  THE  SEMINOLE  WAR  AND 
IN  GOTHAM 


URING  the  progress  of  the  Seminole  War 
young  Judson  found  ample  opportunities, 
to  indulge  his  love  of  wild  sport  and  ad 
venture,  both  on  land  and  sea.  The  "deep, 
tangled  wildwoods"  of  Florida  furnished  a 
great  variety  of  game,  and  Ned  Buntline  reveled 
in  the  glorious  field-sports  of  that  region,  so  vividly 
described  in  Whitehead's  "Camp  Fires  of  the  Ever 
glades."  To  one  of  young  Judson's  active,  adven 
turous  nature  the  land  appeared  to  be  a  veritable 
"happy  hunting  ground,"  and  his  pen  in  after  years 
recorded  the  incidents  of  many  sporting  tours  among 
everglades  and  along  shore.  Under  the  title  of 
"Ducking  by  Wholesale"  he  gave  the  following 
spirited  description  of  a  foray  among  the  wildfowl : 
In  1 840  I  was  an  Acting  Lieutenant  on  board  the 
U.  S.  Schooner  Otsego,  then  belonging  to  what  was 
known  as  McLaughlin's  Mosquito  Fleet,  engaged  in 
co-operating  with  the  army  in  subduing  the  Semi- 


noles  in  Florida.  The  flag  schooner,  Lieut.  Comdg. 
McLaughlin,  was  the  Flirt;  the  Wave,  formerly 
Stevens1  yacht,  was  commanded  by  Lieutenant — now 
Admiral — John  Rogers,  and  the  Otsego  by  passed 
midshipman,  Actg.  Lieut.  Comdg.  Edmund  Templar 
Shubrick.  Though  only  a  young  middy,  I  was  Exe 
cutive  Officer  of  the  Otsego,  wore  the  swab  and  got 
the  pay  of  a  Lieutenant. 

And  now  for  the  ducks.  Being  of  light  draught, 
Baltimore  flat-sharp  build,  the  Otsego  was  ordered 
to  skirt  the  coast  closely  from  Cape  Sable  to  the 
mouth  of  the  Suwanee,  to  attack  any  Indian  party 
seen  on  shore  and  to  look  out  for  some  Spanish 
fishing  boats  that  had  been  reported  as  furnishing 
powder  and  lead  to  the  redskins. 

It  was  midwinter  when  we  anchored  late  one  aft 
ernoon  off  the  eastern  side  of  the  cape  near  an  island 
not  then  named  in  our  charts,  but  known  ever  after 
that  night  to  us  as  Duck  Key.  The  water  and  air 
were  literally  dark  with  ducks  of  all  kinds  and  sizes. 
They  were  so  thick  that  looking  to  port  or  star 
board,  far  and  near,  flying  in  vast  flocks  or  swim 
ming  about,  you  saw  ducks,  ducks  everywhere.  I 
owned  a  double-barreled  Manton — as  good  a  gun  in 
those  days  as  money  could  buy.  I  just  ached  to  take 
a  boat  and  go  for  those  ducks,  and  I  said  so. 

But  Jim  Eagan,  our  coast  pilot,  an  old  Floridian 
said:  "Leftenant,  the  moon  will  be  full  to-night,  and 
if  you'll  hearken  to  me,  we'll  have  ducks  enough  in 
one  hour  to-night  to  last  the  whole  crew  longer  than 


—  26  — 

they'll  keep,  and  have  a  hundred  or  two  to  give 
away,  over  and  above. 

"As  soon  as  it  gets  fairly  night,  thousands  and 
thousands  of  these  ducks  will  waddle  up  on  that  little 
low  island  there  to  lay  over  till  morning.  All  weVe 
got  to  do  is  to  take  our  biggest  boat,  the  one  with  a 
swivel  in  the  bow,  let  every  man  of  the  crew  have  his 
musket  well  charged  with  duck  shot;  you  with  your 
gun  and  I  with  old  Betsey  Ann — she  carries  a  quar 
ter  of  a  pound  of  shot  if  she  takes  an  ounce — and 
sail  in.  We'll  take  cover  on  the  island  just  at  night 
fall,  load  the  swivel,  too,  for  the  boat-keeper  to 
handle,  and  when  the  ducks  come  up  as  thick  as  flies 
on  a  carcass,  we'll  all  shoot  at  the  same  time  and 
I'll  bet  we  pick  up  a  boat  load." 

The  plan  seemed  good,  and  it  was  adopted.  Six 
teen  muskets,  Eagan's  cannon,  as  we  called  his 
Betsey  Ann,  and  a  swivel  with  three  pounds  of  shot 
to  half  a  pound  of  powder  for  a  load,  were  added  to 
my  Manton,  loaded  for  the  occasion  with  near  two 
ounces  of  shot  to  each  barrel,  and  about  four  or 
four  and  a  half  drachms  of  powder. 

Leaving  the  schooner  at  anchor  about  half-a-mile 
away  we  reached  the  island  just  as  the  moon  showed 
her  great  round  face  above  the  horizon.  Hiding  in 
a  clump  of  sea  grapes,  leaving  only  a  boat-keeper  to 
tend  the  boat  and  fire  the  swivel,  we  waited. 

Not  long — for  inside  of  an  hour  the  white  sand 
of  the  island  could  not  be  seen,  bright  and  clear, 
though  the  moon  shone  upon  it.  It  was  literally  cov- 


—  27  — 

ered  with  ducks;  and  the  water  all  around  the  island 
was  literally  and  truly  alive  with  them. 

Guided  by  Eagan,  every  man  now  leveled  his  mus 
ket  in  a  direction  a  little  wide  from  that  of  the  next 
man;  the  word  was  passed  to  the  boat-keeper  to 
stand  by  with  his  swivel,  and  the  order  was  given: 

"Ready,  FIRE!" 

Eagan  and  I  were  to  shoot  on  the  rise. 

Every  musket  and  the  swivel  exploded  at  the  same 
moment.  Oh,  heaven  what  a  fluttering — what  a 
thunder-burst  of  flapping  wings  as  we  sent  in  our 
charges ! 

Then,  in  the  bright  moonlight,  pushing  off  in  our 
boat,  we  went  to  picking  up  game.  On  shore  and  in 
the  water  we  found  wild  fowl  enough  to  load  that 
barge's  gunwale  down  to  the  water  with  ducks. 
Mallard,  teal,  canvas  back — every  kind  of  migra 
tory  duck  was  there  represented,  and  not  by  hun 
dreds  but  apparently  by  thousands. 

Never  before  or  since  have  I  seen  such  slaughter. 
It  was  "pot-hunting"  with  a  vengeance.  We  had 
ducks  every  day — three  times  a  day — for  a  week, 
and  General  Taylor,  with  the  Third  Artillery  and 
his  own  regiment,  the  Sixth  Infantry,  being  at 
Tampa  Bay,  we  ran  in  there  and  left  them  nearly  a 
cartload  of  birds. 

It  is  not  a  very  sportsmanlike  scene  to  boast  of,  I 
know,  but  we  wanted  meat — or  fowl  rather — and 
we  got  it. 


—  28  — 

At  the  close  of  the  war  Lieutenant  Judson  re 
signed  from  the  service,  and  went  up  the  Yellow 
stone  River  in  the  employ  of  the  Northwest  Fur 
Company.  He  now  had  a  chance  such  as  he  had 
long  desired  to  test  the  wild  sports  of  the  West, 
and  he  improved  the  opportunity  by  a  vigorous  cru 
sade  against  the  large  game  of  the  Rocky  Moun 
tains.  At  that  time  the  plains  were  covered  with 
vast  herds  of  bison,  or  buffalo,  affording  a  seemingly 
inexhaustible  supply,  and  large  bands  of  elk  were 
encountered  daily  in  the  foothills.  The  fleet  and 
wary  Rocky  Mountain  sheep,  now  nearly  exterm 
inated,  peopled  the  crags  and  cliffs  gazing  down 
with  intermingled  fear  and  surprise  at  the  unusual 
invaders  of  the  wild  region.  The  antelope  could  be 
seen  dotting  the  prairie  below  in  all  directions  and 
the  hardy  adventurers  when  penetrating  the  dense 
thickets  occasionally  found  it  necessary  to  hunt  or 
be  hunted  by  the  grizzly  bear.  Ned  Buntline  here 
found  his  early  dream  of  border  life  in  the  groove 
so  nobly  filled  by  Daniel  Boone,  well-nigh  realized. 
Frequent  exploring  tours  into  the  more  remote  sec 
tions,  "where  man  had  ne'er  or  rarely  trod,"  gave 
variety  and  zest  to  the  work. 

After  several  months  the  restless  nature  of  the 
young  frontiersman  led  him  to  seek  new  scenes  and 
perils,  and  he  turned  toward  the  great  Southwest  as 
a  suitable  field.  About  this  time  he  wedded  a  lovely 
and  intellectual  young  lady  whom  he  met  in  the 
sunny  South,  and  stimulated  anew  to  the  exercise  of 


—  29  — 

his  literary  talent  he  established  a  bright  journal  en 
titled  Ned  Runtime's  Own.  The  new  publication  at 
tracted  much  attention,  as  the  editor  boldly  criticised 
the  tricks  and  traps  of  gamblers  and  lawless  char 
acters,  whom  he  exposed  without  fear  or  favor, 
thereby  incurring  the  deadly  enmity  of  a  dangerous 
class. 

As  an  indication  of  the  invincible  courage  and  dar 
ing  of  Ned  Buntline,  the  following  incident,  pub 
lished  in  the  columns  of  the  old  Knickerbocker 
Magazine,  may  be  appropriately  given. 

"Apropos  of  Ned  Buntline :  a  new  contributor 
writing  from  Natchez  on  the  25th  of  November, 
1843,  says:  By  the  way,  Ned  passed  through  here 
this  morning,  on  his  way  to  Gallatin,  thirty  miles 
distant.  Being  on  a  visit  to  Eddyville,  Ky.,  a  few 
days  since,  he  heard  that  three  persons,  charged  with 
having  committed  an  atrocious  murder  near  Gallatin 
some  time  since,  were  in  the  woods  in  the  neighbor 
hood.  Arming  himself,  Ned  'put  out'  in  pursuit  of 
them  alone.  'He  soon  overtook  them,  when  two  of 
them  surrendered,  after  a  short  resistance.  These 
he  tied  to  trees,  and  then  went  on  in  pursuit  of  the 
other,  who  had  absconded  in  the  meantime.  But  the 
fellow  had  too  good  a  start;  and  Ned,  after  firing 
one  or  two  shots  after  him,  gave  up  the  chase.  He 
arrived  here  with  his  two  captives  last  night  in  the 
steamer,  and  as  I  said  before  went  on  to  Gallatin 
with  them  this  morning.  He  has  entitled  himself 
to  the  reward  of  six  hundred  dollars  offered  for 
their  apprehension.  Just  like  Ned. 


—  30  — 

"The  foregoing  was  crowded  out  of  our  last  num 
ber;  since  the  publication  of  which  we  have  heard 
with  deep  regret  of  the  death  of  the  young  and 
lovely  wife  of  our  correspondent.  Such  a  loss  will 
make  him  feel  the  impotency  of  consolation,  yet  we 
cannot  withhold  the  expression  of  our  sympathy  with 
him  in  his  great  bereavement.  The  'Life  Yarn'  will 
be  resumed  in  a  subsequent  number." 

At  this  time  a  stirring  serial  entitled  "Ned  Bunt- 
line's  Life  Yarn,"  combining  the  autobiography  of 
our  hero,  with  a  thread  of  romance  interwoven,  was 
running  through  the  pages  of  the  magazine,  as  in 
dicated  by  the  editorial  comment.  At  Nashville, 
Tenn.,  his  southern  home,  he  toiled  steadily  in  his 
chosen  profession,  and  his  reputation  as  a  writer  of 
fiction  soon  became  extensive.  But  the  darkest  hour 
of  his  life  was  close  at  hand.  The  busy  tongue  of 
malicious  gossip  was  the  cause  of  creating  a  deadly 
enemy  in  one  who  had  been  a  close  friend,  and  this 
led  to  the  fatal  affray  so  widely  published  at  the 
time,  and  known  as  the  Porterfield  affair.  The  cir 
cumstances  of  the  sad  occurrence  were  briefly  re 
corded  as  follows,  in  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine, 
April,  1846: 

"There  is  great  reason  to  fear  that  before  the 
sentences  which  are  now  running  from  our  pen  shall 
have  been  placed  in  type,  we  shall  have  heard  of 
the  death  of  our  frequent  and  always  entertaining 
contributor,  'Ned  Buntline,'  late  Midshipman  E.  Z. 


C.  Judson,  of  the  United  States  Navy.  We  gather 
from  the  public  journals  that  a  difficulty  recently 
occurred  at  Nashville  (Tenn.)  between  our  corre 
spondent  and  Mr.  Robert  Porterfield,  which  led  to 
a  hostile  meeting,  in  which,  after  three  shots,  the 
latter  was  killed,  having  been  pierced  with  his  an 
tagonist's  bullet  in  his  forehead,  just  above  the  eye. 
The  events  which  succeeded  are  very  revolting: 
Judson  was  arrested,  but  the  excitement  was  so  great 
against  him,  that  when  he  was  taken  before  the  jus 
tice  for  examination,  it  became  evident  that  he  would 
be  summarily  dealt  with.  Some  cried  'shoot  him!1 
others  'hang  him!'  and  a  brother  of  the  deceased 
shot  at  him  several  times;  a  number  of  shots  were 
fired  at  him  by  others,  and  strange  to  say,  he  escaped 
all  unhurt,  ran  off  and  hid  himself  in  the  City  Hotel. 
Hundreds  of  excited  persons  collected  around  and 
in  the  hotel,  and  after  searching  some  time  he  was 
found,  and  endeavoring  to  escape,  he  fell  from  the 
third  story  to  the  porch  without  serious  injury. 

"The  sheriff  then  took  charge  of  him  and  con 
veyed  him  to  prison,  the  people  now  seeming  willing 
that  the  law  should  take  its  course.  'After  he  had 
been  committed  to  jail,'  adds  another  and  in  some 
particulars  different  account,  'in  an  almost  dying  con 
dition  from  his  fall,  at  about  ten  o'clock  at  night  the 
mob,  finding  he  was  still  alive,  broke  into  the  jail; 
maimed  and  almost  naked  they  threw  him  into  the 
street  to  be  hung.  He  asked  for  a  minister,  which 
was  denied  him;  he  feared  not  death,  but  requested 


->    ^        ~^u+ 

to  be  shot,  and  begged  if  there  was  any  gentleman 
present  he  would  shoot  him.  They  took  him  to  the 
square,  and  ran  him  up  over  the  rail  of  an  awning 
post ;  the  rope  broke  and  he  fell ;  when  he  was  taken 
back  to  the  jail,  where  he  lies  to  die  some  time  dur 
ing  the  night.'  'And  this  horrible,  infamous  out 
rage,'  adds  the  Courier  and  Enquirer  with  signifi 
cant  emphasis,  'occurred  in  the  streets  and  was  per 
formed  by  the  people  of  Nashville.'  We  have  been 
for  many  months  in  intimate  correspondence  with 
Mr.  Judson,  whom,  however,  we  never  met  person 
ally.  We  have  been  made  the  repository  of  all  the 
circumstances  of  his  checkered  and  eventful  life,  up 
almost  to  the  time  of  the  occurrence  above  narrated. 
Of  these  it  will  be  our  province  to  speak  hereafter." 

In  the  next  issue  of  the  magazine  the  rumor  of 
Ned  Buntline's  death  was  declared  unfounded,  and 
the  editor  published  an  extract  from  his  letter  giving 
a  few  important  details  of  the  affray: 

"We  are  glad  to  be  able  to  state  that  our  appre 
hensions  in  regard  to  the  death  of  Mr.  Judson  (our 
'Ned  Buntline')  had  not  at  the  last  advices  been 
realized.  He  writes  us  himself,  under  date  of 
'Nashville,  April  ioth,'  although  in  a  faltering  hand, 
as  follows :  'Your  April  number  has  just  reached  me, 
and  I  hasten  to  tell  you  that  I  am  worth  ten  'dead' 
men  yet,  and  hope  to  be  ready  in  two  or  three 
months,  to  'go  it'  for  'the  whole  of  Oregon.'  I  ex 
pect  to  leave  here  for  the  East  in  three  or  four  days. 
I  cannot  yet  rise  from  my  bed;  my  left  arm  and  leg 


—  33  — 

are  helpless,  and  my  whole  left  side  is  sadly  bruised. 
Out  of  twenty-three  shots,  all  within  ten  steps,  I  was 
slightly  hit  by  three  only.  I  fell  forty-seven  feet 
three  inches  (measured)  on  hard,  rocky  ground,  and 
not  a  bone  cracked.  Thus  GOD  told  them  I  was  in 
nocent.  As  GOD  is  my  judge,  /  never  wronged  Rob 
ert  Porterfeld.  My  enemies  poisoned  his  ears,  and 
foully  belied  me.  I  tried  to  avoid  harming  him,  and 
calmly  talked  with  him  while  he  fired  three  shots  at 
me,  each  shot  grazing  my  person.  I  did  not  fire  till 
I  saw  he  was  determined  to  kill  me,  and  then  I  fired 
but  once.  Gross  injustice  has  been  done  me  in  the 
published  descriptions  of  the  affair.  As  soon  as  I 
can  sit  up  I  shall  publish  a  full  account  of  the  entire 
affray.  I  shall  not  be  tried;  the  grand  jury  have  set, 
and  no  bill  has  been  found  against  me.  The  mob 
was  raised  and  composed  of  men  who  were  my  ene 
mies  on  other  accounts  than  the  death  of  Porterfield. 
They  were  the  persons  whom  I  used  to  score  in  my 
little  paper,  'Ned  Buntline's  Own.'  I  saw  but  one 
respectable  man  among  them.  The  rope  did  not 
break;  it  was  cut  by  a  friend.  I  believe  I  acted 
calmly  and  bravely  through  the  whole  scene;  my 
enemies  say  so,  at  least.  Mr.  Porterfield  was  a 
brave,  good,  but  rash  and  hasty  man;  and  deeply, 
deeply,  do  I  regret  the  necessity  of  his  death.  .  .  . 
I  am  faint  and  weak  from  this  exertion  in  writing 
you.  and  must  close.'  We  have  given  the  foregoing 
to  the  public  without  request,  and  without  the  per 
mission  of  the  writer.  It  seems  but  just  that  one 


who  so  conspicuous  an  actor  in  the  sad  events  here 
tofore  recorded,  should  have  the  opportunity  of  as 
serting  his  innocence.  It  could  hardly  be  denied 
him  by  an  enemy." 

Soon  after  recovering  from  the  effects  of  this  ter 
rible  ordeal,  Ned  Buntline  removed  to  New  York, 
as  affording  a  wider  field  for  his  literary  labors,  and 
he  soon  became  a  notable  figure  in  the  "Old  Guard," 
a  term  affectionately  applied  to  the  corps  of  gifted 
contributors  who  rallied  to  the  support  of  old  Spirit 
in  its  palmiest  days.  Among  the  bright  lights  of 
this  coterie  was  Dr.  Alban  S.  Payne,  who  has  since 
become  famous  under  the  nom  de  plume  of  "Nicho 
las  Spicer."  Dr.  Payne  and  Ned  Buntline  formed 
a  warm  mutual  friendship,  which  lasted  through  life, 
and  when  together  during  their  early  years  were 
ever  ready  for  any  adventure  requiring  nerve  and 
daring.  "Nicholas  Spicer" — one  of  the  noblest 
membres  of  the  'Old  Guard' — has  another  claim  to 
distinction  aside  from  his  literary  talent  and  high 
reputation  as  a  physician.  He  is  the  identical  man — 

"WHO  STRUCK  BILLY  PATTERSON" 

As  the  writer  of  this  has  been  favored  with  the 
true  version,  from  the  gallant  Spicer  himself,  the 
history  of  the  famous  encounter  is  worth  repeating. 

The  quaint  and  genial  "Nicholas  Spicer"  was  at 
that  time  in  the  prime  of  manhood,  one  of  the  finest 
amateur  athletes  of  the  day,  and  his  feats  of 


—  35  — 

strength  and  agility  commanded  the  admiration  of 
his  associates. 

After  graduating  with  honors,  Dr.  Alban  S. 
Payne  joined  the  American  Medical  Association, 
where  his  humor  and  powers  of  oratory  made  him  a 
warm  favorite.  About  the  year  1848  the  Medical 
Association  convened  at  Richmond,  Va.,  and 
"Spicer"  attended  as  was  his  custom.  One  night, 
during  the  "wee  sma'  hours,"  the  members  were  re 
turning  from  a  late  session,  in  solid  column  to  the 
number  of  twenty-five  or  thirty;  and  upon  reaching 
the  foot  of  Capital  Hill,  the  door  of  a  well-known 
restaurant  flew  open,  as  the  redoubtable  Billy  Pat 
terson  emerged  therefrom  and  sprang  out  upon  the 
pavement.  Patterson,  a  very  Hercules  in  size  and 
strength,  appeared  more  formidable  than  usual,  hav 
ing  indulged  heavily  in  "the  cup  that  inebriates"  and 
being  in  one  of  his  worst  moods.  He  evidently  re 
garded  the  company  as  a  posse  of  police  bent  upon 
his  arrest,  and  made  a  bold  stand. 

Pausing  an  instant  to  collect  his  energies,  Billy 
Patterson  dashed  at  the  head  of  the  column,  and  by 
sheer  strength  and  weight  hurled  the  disciples  of 
^Esculapius  in  either  direction  as  he  advanced.  The 
streets  were  almost  impassable,  the  result  of  heavy 
rains,  and  the  members  of  the  profession  nearest  the 
outer  edge  of  the  pavement  were  sent  reeling  into 
the  gutter.  Patterson  had  utterly  routed  the  front, 
when  "Spicer,"  who  was  bringing  up  the  rear,  re 
leased  his  arms  from  his  companion,  on  either  side 
and  prepared  to  meet  the  burly  antagonist. 


-36- 

As  Patterson,  filled  with  exultation  at  his  appar 
ent  triumph,  found  only  one  man  of  the  rear  guard 
to  confront  him,  he  aimed  a  terrific  blow  at  that 
individual;  but  to  his  great  surprise  this  was  readily 
parried,  and  the  counter  blow,  a  la  Yankee  Sullivan, 
fell  upon  his  left  eye  with  such  force,  that,  followed 
by  a  second,  the  desperado  was  thrown  heavily  into 
the  street.  More  dead  than  alive,  he  was  carried 
into  the  restaurant,  where  he  was  restored  to  con 
sciousness,  while  the  interrupted  company  resumed 
its  line  of  march. 

The  next  morning  "Nicholas  Spicer"  learned  that 
two  policemen  were  on  the  lookout  for  the  man  who 
struck  Billy  Patterson,  and  while  clear  in  conscience, 
his  distaste  for  legal  proceedings  caused  him  to  lay 
the  case  before  a  friend  at  the  hotel.  Assuring  him 
of  a  speedy  cessation  of  hostilities,  this  gentleman 
engaged  two  newsboys  to  traverse  the  streets  of  the 
city,  asking  every  person  old  or  young,  "Who  struck 
Billy  Patterson?"  The  policemen  soon  retired,  but 
the  question  was  caught  up  by  hundreds  of  lips,  and 
the  query  soon  found  a  place  in  the  daily  journals, 
whence  it  spread  with  electric  rapidity  through  all 
parts  of  the  Union. 

This  is  believed  to  have  been  the  only  fistic  en 
counter  in  which  Billy  Patterson  was  vanquished,  but 
it  utterly  subdued  the  bravo.  It  was  the  first  and 
last  one,  in  all  probability,  of  Dr.  Payne ;  yet  so  fa 
mous  has  it  been  rendered  that  many  will  no  doubt 


—  37  — 

be  pleased  to  learn  who  struck  Billy  Patterson. 

Having  given  the  reader  an  idea  of  "Nicholas 
Spicer's"  courage  and  skill,  it  may  be  seen  that  he 
was  a  right  royal  companion  for  the  gallant  young 
sailor,  adventurer  and  novelist.  In  response  to  a 
request  from  the  writer,  Nicholas  Spicer  has  given 
the  following  personal  recollections  of  Ned  Bunt- 
line: 

A  MEMOIR,  BY  "NICHOLAS  SPICER." 

I  can  clearly  remember  the  circumstances  attend 
ing  my  first  meeting  and  subsequent  acquaintance 
with  the  distinguished  novelist,  sportsman  and  trav 
eler,  Col.  E.  Z.  C.  Judson— "Ned  Buntline."  The 
whole  world  knows  he  was  chivalric,  and  intellectual, 
but  few  knew  as  well  as  does  the  writer  of  this,  his 
intrinsic  worth,  his  generosity,  his  goodness  of  heart, 
and  his  undying  attachment  to  his  friends.  He  was 
a  grand  type  of  the  true  sportsman — in  every  accep 
tation  of  the  term. 

He  loved  his  friends  dearly,  tenderly,  and  was 
ever  ready  to  lend  them  a  helping  hand.  He  was 
fearless,  generous,  magnanimous.  At  times  he  was 
bold  as  a  lion,  at  others  capable  of  being  "gentle  as 
a  lamb."  In  his  composition  the  boldness  of  true 
manhood  was  happily  blended  with  the  gentleness 
of  woman. 

A  soul  in  which  the  manlier  traits 

And  gentler,  were  so  blended, 

That  none  could  say  where  these  began, 


-38- 

Or  where  the  others  ended 
Alas !  to  fitly  speak  his  worth 

All  words  seem  poor  and  common — 
In  whose  large  spirit  Nature  fused 
The  tenderness  of  a  woman." 

In  the  fall  of  1844,  I  had  written  a  sketch — a 
humorous  article — for  the  old  Spirit  of  the  Times, 
giving  a  glimpse  of  New  York  life  as  seen  by  a  ver 
dant  young  countryman.  The  article  was  mentioned 
in  very  complimentary  terms  by  the  genial  editor, 
William  T.  Porter  ("York's  Tall  Son"),  and  in  the 
notice  to  correspondents  there  was  an  invitation  to 
call  at  the  office  next  day.  I  was  then  sojourning  at 
531  Broadway,  corner  of  Spring  street,  and  was  oc 
cupying,  through  courtesy,  the  same  office  with  New 
York's  great  surgeon,  Prof.  Lewis  A.  Sayre,  then  a 
young  but  rising  man.  I  dressed  myself  carefully, 
and  with  palpitating  heart  and  trembling  step  pro 
ceeded  to  the  sanctum  of  the  Spirit  of  the  Times, 
then  located  in  Barclay  street.  As  I  entered  the 
door  I  asked: 

"Is  Col.  Bill  Porter  at  home?" 

"Yes,  sir,  always  at  home  to  my  friends,"  re 
sponded  a  full,  hearty  voice,  as  the  "Tall  Spirit" — 
six  foot  four  in  stature — advanced  to  welcome  me. 
Within  the  rare  old  sanctum  I  found  a  glorious  gath 
ering  of  talent — Henry  William  Herbert  ("Frank 
Forester");  Lewis  Gaylord  Clark,  of  the  Knicker 
bocker;  Lieut.  Dick  Meade,  father  of  Gen.  Meade 
of  Gettysburg  fame;  Henry  Inman,  the  artist;  En 
sign  Edward  Z.  C.  Judson,  lately  returned  from  a 


—  39  — 

sea  voyage;  Dr.  T.  O.  Porter,  and  Elliott,  the  por 
trait  painter — all  of  whom  were  introduced,  and  the 
acquaintance  duly  cemented  at  "Frank' s"  next  door, 
in  the  usual  manner.  Just  as  we  were  about  to  take  a 
sherry  cobbler,  Gen.  George  P.  Morris,  N.  P.  Wil 
lis,  of  the  Mirror,  and  E.  E.  Jones,  entered  and 
joined  us.  Among  them  all,  York's  Tall  Son  was 
"the  center  of  magnetic  attraction."  His  personal 
popularity  and  genial  magnetism  exceeded  that  of 
any  man  I  ever  knew.  Before  I  left  I  had  a  long 
talk  with  Edw.  Judson,  and  he  inquired  of  me  all 
about  Gen.  Walker  K.  Armistead  and  family,  of 
Virginia,  saying  he  had  served  in  Florida  during  the 
Seminole  War,  under  Armistead.  Just  before  we 
parted,  Judson  said,  handing  me  a  card:  "Should 
you  ever  need  a  friend,  call  on  E.  Z.  C.  Judson,  and 
your  draft  shall  be  honored."  This  was  the  first, 
but  not  the  last  time  I  ever  met  the  noble  old  Roman 
so  well  known  to  the  reading  public  in  later  years 
under  the  nom  de  plume  of  "Ned  Buntline." 

Our  next  meettng — and  a  most  opportune  one  it 
proved  to  be — was  in  September,  1845,  when  the 
political  horizon  was  all  aglow,  and  the  annexation 
project  seemed  ripe  for  consummation  in  Canada. 
At  the  solicitation  of  my  friend,  George  Wallace 
McCrae,  of  Warrenton,  Va.,  I  had  joined  him  on  a 
romantic  expedition  up  the  St.  Lawrence,  to  Mon 
treal,  the  object  of  the  trip  being  unknown  to  me 
until  well  under  way.  I  then  learned  that  the  elo 
quent  and  eccentric  McCrae  was  bent  upon  impress- 


—  40  — 

ing  upon  our  Canadian  cousins  the  superiority  of 
"Benton's  mint  drops"  over  the  copper  coins  of  the 
British  Provinces,  and  the  mutual  benefits  to  accrue 
from  annexation  with  the  United  States. 

At  Montreal  he  made  many  enthusiastic  converts, 
and  left  the  city  in  high  spirits,  bound  for  Quebec, 
but  on  board  the  steamer,  while  en  route,  we  formed 
the  acquaintance  of  two  British  officers  with  whom 
the  gallant  McCrae  became  convivial,  and  finally  a 
quarrel  seemed  imminent — over  the  relative  merits 
of  English  and  American  soldiers.  Several  times  I 
quieted  the  conflicting  elements,  curbing  my  own 
temper  meanwhile,  until  finally,  as  McCrae  stepped 
out  of  the  room,  in  response  to  a  call  from  a  friend, 
one  of  the  officers,  Capt.  A.,  sneeringly  said,  sotto 
voce:  "See,  the  Yankee  coward  is  sneaking  away." 

McCrae  did  not  overhear  the  remark,  but  this 
final  insult,  following  close  upon  a  reflection  on  Gen. 
Jackson's  courage,  stung  me  to  frenzy,  and  I  offered 
to  meet  the  boastful  Britishers,  one  or  both,  with 
any  weapons,  there  or  elsewhere.  They  were  taken 
aback  at  this,  but  handed  me  their  cards  and  went 
up  on  deck.  Upon  arriving  at  Quebec  McCrae  and 
myself  stopped  at  the  Albion  Hotel,  and  after  a  ride 
during  the  day  over  the  historic  plains  of  Abraham, 
we  returned  and  found  two  mutual  friends  awaiting 
us — Wm.  Henry  Tyler,  of  West  Point,  and  E.  Z.  C. 
Judson,  who,  as  correspondent  of  the  Knicker 
bocker,  was  visiting  Canada  to  witness  her  grand 
scenery.  Just  as  I  passed  in  to  supper  a  most  elab- 


—  41  — 

orately  dressed  officer  handed  me  a  voluminous  chal 
lenge  from  Capt.  A ,  of  the  Royal  Guards,  and 

I  wrote  a  prompt  acceptance,  referring  the  doughty 
soldier  to  my  friend  Judson,  for  arranging  all  pre 
liminaries.  At  my  earnest  request  my  friends  prom 
ised,  in  event  of  my  falling  by  my  antagonist's  bullet, 
that  my  parents  should  not  be  informed  I  had  been 
killed  in  a  duel,  but  that  the  report  should  be: 
"Drowned  in  the  St.  Lawrence  River."  All  were 
pledged  to  secrecy,  and  no  word  or  rumor  of  the 
event  ever  reached  my  family.  The  following  let 
ter,  written  by  Dr.  Sewall  to  his  friend  Dr.  Carman, 
of  Jamaica,  L.  I.,  explains  the  affair  better  than  I 
can  possibly  do : 

QUEBEC,  Nov.  4,  1845. 

MY  DEAR  DOCTOR:  I  was  surgeon  to  Dr.  Payne  in  his 

meeting  with  Capt.  A ,  Royal  Guards,  on  the  17th  day 

of  last  September.  This  fight  occurred  in  a  secluded  spot, 
not  far  from  Falls  of  Montmorency.  The  American  party 
consisted  of  the  principal,  Payne;  second,  E.  Z.  C.  Judson, 
Hon.  G.  W.  McCrae,  Lieut.  Wm.  H.  Tyler  and  myself, 
acting  as  surgeon.  We  found  the  English  party  on  the 
ground,  having  arrived,  however,  only  a  few  moments  ahead 
of  us.  They  consisted  of  five  officers  with  their  valet. 

Imagine  Payne,  slight,  graceful,  but  tall  and  erect — a  man 
ner  so  unassuming  and  modest  that  he  might  have  been  mis 
taken  for  a  fifteen-year-old  boy — yet  cool,  calm,  serene,  with 
stern  determination  in  his  eyes,  carelessly  toying  with  his 
pistol  (although  to  the  observer  it  was  evident  he  had 
handled  a  pistol  before),  confronted  by  a  large,  powerfully 
built  man,  apparently  fifty  years  of  age,  dressed  in  full  uni 
form.  He  is  in  manner  theatrical,  and  handles  his  weapo .1 


—  42  — 

in  that  style.  Stern  determination  can  be  seen  on  the  coun 
tenances  of  both  these  men.  Neither  is  going  to  yield  until 
badly  hurt.  They  are  both  waiting  for  the  word — the  try 
ing  moment  has  come.  E.  Z.  C.  Judson  steps  forward,  and 
in  a  clear,  manly  tone  says: 

"Gentlemen,  are  you  ready?  One,  two,  — "  but  at  the 
word  "two"  there  is  a  simultaneous  report,  a  moment  of  in 
tense  suspense;  the  smoke  rolls  away,  and  there  stands  our 

friend,  apparently  unhurt,  while  Capt.  A is  seen  to 

stagger  back,  and  is  caught  in  the  arms  of  his  second,  and 
carried  to  the  rear,  where  he  is  laid  in  the  shade  of  a  group 
of  trees. 

A  few  moments  pass,  Payne  still  standing  in  his  tracks, 

and  he  says:  "Judson,  ask  if  Capt.  A desires  another 

fire."  The  question  is  asked,  and  the  answer  comes  back, 
"He  does  not." 

Then,  said  Judson :  "Is  there  any  gentleman  on  the  ground 
who  doubts  Gen.  Jackson's  courage?" 

"There  is  none,"  was  the  reply. 

Said  Lieut.  Tyler:  "Is  there  any  gentleman  who  doubts 
the  courage  of  the  officers  of  the  American  army?" 

"None,"  replied  the  officers. 

McCrae  then  inquired:  "Is  there  any  gentleman  present 
who  doubts  the  courage  of  the  Yankee  nation  ?" 

"None,"  was  the  response. 

"Then,"  said  Judson,  "the  sport  will  have  to  stop  from 
want  of  material — and  we  had  better  get  away  from  here." 

I  acted  as  surgeon  for  both  parties — the  Englishman  not 
thinking  one  necessary.  The  ball  struck  the  fifth  rib  on  the 
left  side  of  the  Captain,  glanced,  and  I  cut  it  out  from  un 
der  the  latissimus  dorsi  muscle.  Capt.  A never  knew 

Payne  was  hit  at  all,  but  the  Captain's  ball  struck  his  right 
thigh,  ranged  upward  and  outward,  and  I  cut  it  out  over 
the  trochauls  major.  I  can  say  in  truth  the  conduct  of  your 
friend  under  fire  was  capital,  superb.  I  never  saw  more 


—  43  — 

courteous  behavior,  or  a  stronger  desire  to  fight  than  the 
Americans  evinced  that  day.  Indeed,  their  gentlemanly  con 
duct  and  desire  to  fight  seemed  to  strike  the  English  officers 
so  forcibly  that  their  feelings  became  those  of  admiration  in 
place  of  resentment. 

I  applied  a  strong,  hot  poultice  to  Payne's  wound  that 
night,  which  took  all  the  soreness  out,  and  the  next  day  he 
was  walking  around  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  Not  so 
the  Captain.  He  was  laid  up  three  weeks  for  repairs.  A 
reconciliation  took  place  before  we  left  the  grounds,  and  we 
all  returned  to  Quebec  together. 

Yours  truly, 

WILLIAM  SEWALL,  M.  D. 

My  third  memorable  meeting  with  Ned  Bunt- 
line — not  to  mention  the  many  social  ones  of  minor 
importance — was  in  the  winter  of  1845.  At  this 
period  it  was  dangerous  after  nightfall  to  pass 
through  that  notorious  portion  of  Gotham  known  as 
the  "Five  Points,"  unless  protected  by  policemen. 
Not  only  robbery,  but  foul  murders  were  frequent, 
and  the  locality  was  carefully  avoided  by  belated 
citizens.  One  evening  I  decided  to  attend  a  main, 
or  "battle  royal,"  on  the  Bowery,  and  not  wishing 
to  go  alone  I  walked  down  to  the  Broadway  House, 
near  Mitchell's  Olympic  Theater,  thinking  I  would 
meet  some  of  the  Spirit  family  at  this  popular  hos 
telry.  As  I  entered  the  door  the  first  man  I  met 
was  Ned  Buntline,  who,  ever  ready  for  an  adven 
ture,  gladly  consented  to  go  with  me.  After  enjoy 
ing  the  sport  to  a  very  late  hour,  we  set  out  on  our 
return.  As  we  neared  the  Five  Points  we  could  see  a 


—  44  — 

crowd  gathering  on  the  right-hand  sidewalk.  They 
seemed  to  gather  from  the  sound  of  our  steps  on 
the  pavement,  and  from  their  movements  it  was  evi 
dent  they  were  bent  on  stopping  us.  I  proposed  to 
cross  over  on  the  left-hand  side,  walk  fast,  and  flank 
them,  but  Ned  said:  "No!  let  us  advance  rapidly 
and  boldly  right  toward  them.  If  they  make  any 
hostile  demonstration  we  must  fire  right  into  them/* 
When  within  fifteen  feet  of  them,  the  rascals 
made  a  rush  at  us.  Simultaneously  our  pistols  were 
fired,  three  men  were  seen  to  fall,  and  the  rest  scat 
tered  in  every  direction.  We  reached  Broadway, 
and  there  separated,  the  lion-hearted  Ned  going  to 
the  Broadway  House,  and  I  to  my  lodgings  farther 
up  town — 531  Broadway.  About  12  M.  next  day  I 
was  in  Dr.  Sayre's  office  when  a  messenger  arrived 
asking  him  to  come  to  see  a  wounded  man  at  the 
Five  Points.  He  invited  me  to  go  with  him,  and  I 
helped  to  dress  the  wounds  of  one  of  the  miserable 
rascals  that  sought  to  take  my  life  the  night  before. 
I  have  always  thought  that  Ned  Buntline  and  myself 
did  as  much  to  reform  the  Five  Points  as  any  of  the 
home  missionaries  in  that  section. 


CHAPTER^  THREE 

THE  NOVELIST'S  INTENSE  PATRIOTISM 
—"NED  BUNTLINE  OWN" 


ED  BUNTLINE'S  career  in  Gotham  was  a 
succession  of  stirring  incidents,  for  his  rest 
less  and  daring  nature  could  never  be  con 
tent  with  the  steady  routine  that  marks  the 
life  of  ordinary  mortals.  The  excitement 
of  the  chase  or  the  "clamorous  crowd"  was  as  nec 
essary  to  him  as  food  to  the  famished.  He  was  es 
sentially  a  man  of  action  and  impulse.  Through  the 
medium  of  Ned  Buntline's  Own  he  scourged  the  law 
less  element  of  the  metropolis,  and  was  the  means 
directly  and  indirectly  of  bringing  to  justice  many 
of  the  cunning  rascals  of  the  city.  The  breezy  jour 
nal  was  the  talk  of  the  town,  and  the  editor  was 
often  in  danger  of  "asault  with  intent  to  kill,"  on 
the  part  of  the  shrewdest  members  at  large  repre 
sented  in  the  rogue's  gallery.  Ned  Buntline  was 
aware  that  his  life  was  eagerly  sought  by  scores  of 
miscreants,  but  as  the  danger  increased  his  spirits 
rose,  for  he  believed  that 


-46- 

A  single  hour  of  honest  strife 
Is  worth  a  year  of  peaceful  life. 

He  possessed  an  untamable  and  dauntless  spirit 
that  would  have  been  more  in  keeping  with  the  age 
of  chivalry  than  the  prosaic  era  in  which  he  lived. 
He  was  a  modern  knight  errant,  hedged  in  with  cus 
toms  uncongenial  and  formal,  yet  warring  vigor 
ously  against  the  code  of  the  uunco  guid  and  rigidly 
righteous,"  while  assailing  the  vices  of  the  metrop 
olis  on  the  other  hand.  Thus  he  was  often  between 
two  fires,  and  cared  no  more  for  the  assailants  on 
one  side  than  the  other.  It  has  been  said  of  him, 
and  with  justice,  that  he  never  feared  a  foe  nor  for 
sook  a  friend. 

One  of  his  most  intimate  acquaintances,  Mr.  E. 
Locke  Mason,  who  was  associate  editor  of  Ned 
Buntline's  Own, — and  who,  in  1888,  married  Col. 
Judson's  widow — thus  alludes  to  the  characteristics 
and  eccentricities  of  the  novelist:  uNed's  life  was 
one  continuous  series  of  sensations,  almost  from  the 
cradle  to  the  grave,  and  I  verily  believe  he  kicked 
off  the  coverlets  from  his  little  cradle,  and  fought 
against  the  rigid  rules  of  decorum  with  all  the  ear 
nestness  of  a  baby  monarch.  Sensations  upon  sen 
sations,  riots,  shootings,  speeches,  duels,  prisons — 
north  and  south — travels,  dramas,  yachts,  wars,  ad 
ventures  and  a  thousand  condiments  of  this  char 
acter,  go  together  to  spice  a  life  that  will  furnish  a 
dish  for  lovers  of  wild  scenes  among  Indians,  rough 
experiences  at  sea  and  startling  episodes  ashore.  I 
am  familiar  with  Ned's  early  history,  and  more  par- 


—47  — 

ticularly  his  private  life,  if  he  had  any,  which  I 
doubt.  He  was  the  hero  of  a  hundred  fights  and 
the  victim  of  a  hundred  wrongs.  The  world,  always 
coldly  critical,  judges  of  results  and  does  not  ana 
lyze  the  motives  of  men.  Ned's  follies  and  foibles 
were  not  concealed  by  any  mask  of  hypocrisy,  but 
were  all  on  the  surface,  to  be  seen  and  criticised, 
while  his  inherent  goodness  and  tenderness  of  heart 
could  be  appreciated  by  the  favored  few.  He  was, 
as  all  knew,  careless  and  reckless  in  his  habits.  He 
never  saved  a  book,  a  sketch,  a  scrap  or  a  story  of 
his  own  composition  as  long  as  I  was  his  companion 
and  correspondent.  Moving  constantly — in  war  or 
peace — new  homes  romantic  abodes;  fishing  or  hunt 
ing  orating  on  temperance  with  a  sad  experience  of 
the  opposite  extreme,  fighting  Mexicans,  Indians  or 
''rebels"  on  the  plains,  among  the  miners  on  the 
Golden  Shores;  anywhere,  everywhere — leaving  all 
articles  identified  with  his  every  movement,  when 
ever  he  happened  to  move.  The  mementoes  of 
friends,  loved  pictures  of  relatives,  camp  tools  and 
equipage,  guns,  pistols,  swords,  clothes  trunks  and 
boxes  innumerable — all,  all  dropped  behind  or  left 
with  a  friend,  or  where  he  last  plied  his  pen,  shot 
his  gun,  or  spent  his  eloquence.  Flags,  banners,  let 
ters,  gifts  from  institutions  he  had  originated  and 
individuals  he  had  benefited;  household  effects,  in 
fact  every  personal  effect,  of  whatever  name  or  na 
ture,  left  to  fate,  while  he  pushed  on  in  the  restless 
manner  of  one  who  had  a  mission  to  perform,  an  I 


-48- 

would  accomplish  it  at  all  hazards,  if  he  came  out 
naked  in  the  end.  Thus  was  lost  to  us,  to  his 
friends,  to  history,  to  posterity — all  or  nearly  all  of 
the  data  and  incidents  of  his  sensational  life;  which, 
added  to  what  is  of  public  record,  would  have  made 
a  remarkable  book."  The  foregoing  may  be  re 
garded  as  a  graphic  pen-picture,  in  miniature,  from  a 
master  hand. 

Perhaps  the  most  intense  and  unalterable  of  Ned 
Buntline's  sentiments  was  his  radical  Americanism. 
This  ruling  passion  at  one  time  overshadowed  all 
others,  and  the  outcome  was  the  organization  of  the 
true  American  party,  more  generally  known  as  the 
"Know  Nothings,"  of  which  the  irrepressible  Ned 
was  one  of  the  leading  spirits  and  prime  movers. 
The  party  was  an  important  factor  in  politics,  and 
faction  fights  of  the  most  bitter  and  relentless  char 
acter  were  common  during  its  ascendancy.  The  for 
eign  element  assailed  the  new  party  vigorously,  and 
the  radical  Americans  retaliated  in  like  spirit.  Ned 
Buntline  was  the  lion  of  the  day.  His  pen  and 
tongue  exercised  a  potent  influence  in  the  cause.  Al 
ways  a  ready  speaker,  he  rose  to  the  height  of  im 
passioned  eloquence  when  advocating  the  principle 
"America  for  Americans,"  and  his  services  were  in 
constant  demand  as  the  orator  of  his  party.  Upon 
such  occasions  he  was  frequently  interrupted  and  de 
nounced  by  the  foreign  element,  and  bloodshed 
seemed  almost  unavoidable  at  times,  yet  the  speaker 
never  wavered  for  an  instant. 


—  49  — 

While  making  a  speech  at  Portland,  during  this 
exciting  period,  he  had  a  ludicrous  encounter  with  a 
huge  foreigner,  who,  backed  by  a  shouting  mob  of 
followers,  seemed  bent  on  silencing  him  by  intimida 
tion  or  by  force.  Jumping  upon  the  platform,  with 
an  axe-helve  in  hand,  the  leader  approached  Judson 
and  told  him  he  could  not  go  on.  Mr.  Judson  very 
coolly  asked  his  name,  which  was  given.  Then  he 
asked : 

"Have  you  been  naturalized?" 

"Yes,  I've  been  naturalized,"  shouted  the  dis 
turber. 

"Well,  I  don't  believe  you  have  been  baptized," 
said  Judson;  "in  the  name  of  the  stars  and  stripes, 
take  water" — and  before  the  astonished  Bombastes 
Furioso  could  resist  he  was  thrown  headlong  in  the 
river  which  flowed  beneath  the  rear  of  the  platform. 
It  was  such  a  surprise  to  the  crowd  that  it  com 
pletely  demoralized  them,  giving  the  speaker's 
friends  a  chance  to  rally  to  his  assistance.  The 
speech  was  finished  without  further  disturbance. 

In  1848  the  strife  reached  its  climax,  when  Ned 
Buntline  was  indicted  and  convicted  as  one  of  the 
principals  in  the  celebrated  Astor  Place  riot,  grow 
ing  out  of  the  bitter  feud  between  the  foreigners 
and  the  Know  Nothings.  Judge  Charles  P.  Daly 
sentenced  him  to  one  year  in  the  penitentiary,  where 
he  cheerfully  served  his  term,  while  still  keeping  up 
his  crusade  against  Judge  Daly  and  other  anti- 
American  opponents,  through  the  columns  of  his 


newspaper.  His  release  from  imprisonment  on 
Blackwell's  Island  was  celebrated  by  an  enthusiastic 
ovation  on  the  part  of  his  friends  and  admirers.  Six 
white  horses,  harnessed  to  a  gorgeous  open  bar 
ouche,  drew  him  to  his  home  near  Abingdon  Square, 
and  the  streets  were  thonged  with  men  and  boys  who 
cheered  him  vociferously,  while  a  cannon  thundered 
forth  welcome,  and  a  mighty  brass  band  played 
"Hail  to  the  Chief"  as  the  cortege  drew  up  to  the 
square.  A  number  of  eulogistic  speeches  rounded 
out  the  long  to  be  remembered  reception  to  Ned 
Buntline — the  idol  of  young  America,  then  as  in 
later  years. 

Contemporary  with  the  so-called  Know  Nothing 
party — though  entirely  distinct  as  an  organization, 
and  having  no  political  significance  or  affiliation — 
was  the  Patriotic  Order  Sons  of  America,  later  rec 
ognized  as  a  society  of  vast  influence  and  increasing 
strength.  This  patriotic  order,  having  for  its  pri 
mary  objects  "the  inculcation  of  pure  American  prin 
ciples;  the  opposition  to  foreign  interference  with 
state  interests  in  the  United  States  of  America ;  the 
cultivation  of  a  fraternal  love;  the  preservation  of 
the  Constitution  of  the  United  States,  and  the  propa 
gation  of  free  education,"  was  first  organized  in 
Philadelphia,  in  1847,  an<^  Ned  Buntline  was  one  of 
the  founders.  The  progress  of  the  order  was  slow, 
and  prior  to  the  late  war  the  Camps  were  confined 
principally  if  not  wholly  to  the  Middle  States.  At 
the  outbreak  of  the  war  a  general  enlistment  of  the 


members  compelled  temporary  suspension;  but  in 
1866  it  was  reorganized  upon  a  more  substantial 
basis,  and  its  development  has  since  been  phenom 
enal.  To  this  organization  the  chivalrous  Ned 
Buntline  gave  his  heart  and  energies,  and  was  ever  a 
most  devoted  believer  in  its  cardinal  principles,  as 
set  forth  in  the  preamble : 

Whereas,  The  experiences  of  all  ages  and  all  countries  dis 
tinctly  showeth,  that  popular  liberty — born  amid  the  din  of 
battle,  baptized  in  patriot  blood,  and  rocked  by  the  rude 
storms  of  civil  strife — demands  for  its  preservation,  against 
the  rage  of  party  spirit,  the  wiles  of  ambition,  and  the  stern 
arm  of  power,  the  undivided  love  of  all  its  votaries  and  the 
firm  determination  of  all  its  friends,  in  an  internal  struggle 
with  all  its  foes. 

The  history  of  the  world  most  plainly  proves  that  it  is 
the  business  of  one  generation  to  sow  the  seed  of  which  an 
other  reaps  the  harvest,  be  it  of  grain  or  taxes,  of  good  or 
evil. 

Now,  therefore,  we,  the  undersigned,  Sons  of  America — 
children  of  its  soil,  reared  beneath  the  shadow  of  its  flag, 
loving  it  as  none  other  can  love,  and  having  an  interest  in 
its  future  welfare,  nearer,  truer,  deeper  than  all  mankind 
beside,  do  hereby  associate  ourselves  into  an  Order  for  the 
purpose  of  maturing  ourselves  in  the  knowledge  and  encour 
aging  each  other  in  the  practice  of  our  rights  and  duties  as 
citizens  of  a  country  in  which  we  are  called  to  exercise 
among  our  fellow  men  the  common  rights  of  sovereignty.  In 
which  act  of  association  we  severally  pledge  ourselves  to  the 
observance  and  support  of  the  laws  of  the  land,  and  regu 
lations  of  this  body,  as  becomes  the  sons  of  freemen,  willing 
to  submit  to  the  restraints  of  social  order,  and  acknowledg 
ing  no  other  bonds  but  those  of  duty  to  our  God,  our  coun 
try,  and  ourselves. 


—  52  — 

While  engaged  in  editing  Ned  Buntline's  Own,  in 
the  South  and  East;  and  amid  the  other  occupations 
of  divers  kinds  to  which  he  turned  his  attention,  Mr. 
Judson  continued  to  publish,  from  time  to  time,  stirr 
ing  novels  of  the  kind  that  first  made  his  nom  de 
plume  a  familiar  household  word  to  all  lovers  of  ex 
citing  fiction.  To  one  unfamiliar  with  his  methods 
of  literary  labor,  and  his  capacity  for  continuous 
work,  the  prolific  character  of  his  writings  must  be 
little  short  of  marvelous.  When  engrossed  in  writ 
ing  a  new  story  for  the  press,  he  plied  his  pen  with 
astonishing  rapidity,  and  scarcely  knew  any  rest  until 
his  task  was  completed. 

A  friend  once  inquired  how  he  managed  to  do 
such  an  amount  of  literary  work,  and  asked  if  his 
plots  were  carefully  prepared  in  advance.  He  re 
plied,  "I  once  wrote  a  book  of  610  pages  in  sixty-two 
hours,  but  during  that  time  I  scarcely  ate  or  slept. 
As  to  my  method — I  never  lay  out  a  plot  in  ad 
vance.  I  shouldn't  know  how  to  do  it,  for  how  can 
I  know  what  my  people  may  take  it  into  their  heads 
to  do?  First  I  invent  a  title,  and  when  I  hit  on  a 
good  one  I  consider  the  story  about  half  finished.  It 
is  the  thing  of  prime  importance.  Then  I  take  a 
bound  book  of  blank  paper,  set  my  title  at  the  head 
of  it,  and  begin  to  write  about  the  fictitious  charac 
ter  who  is  to  be  the  hero  of  it.  I  push  ahead  as  fast 
as  I  can  write,  never  blotting  out  anything  I  have 
once  written,  and  never  making  a  correction  or 
modification.  If  you  will  examine  the  leaves  of 


—  53  — 

manuscript  you  will  see  that  the  pages  are  clean, 
with  no  erasures — no  interlineations.  If  a  book 
does  not  suit  me  when  I  have  finished  it,  or  at  any 
stage  of  its  progress,  I  simply  throw  it  in  the  fire, 
and  begin  again  without  any  reference  to  the  dis 
carded  text.  When  I  speak,  as  I  frequently  do  on 
political  topics,  temperance,  or  any  other  subject,  I 
talk  straight  on,  as  I  write,  without  notes  or  any 
previous  preparation." 

Many  of  his  romances  appeared  in  the  columns 
of  the  New  York  Mercury,  the  Knickerbocker 
Magazine,  and  his  own  periodical,  and  the  greater 
portion  of  these  were  afterward  published  in  book 
form,  to  meet  the  demand  of  the  public — always 
eager  to  read  Ned  Buntline's  charming  sea  tales,  and 
equally  thrilling  novels  of  border  life.  One  of  his 
friends,  Commodore  L.  A.  Beardslee — better  known 
to  the  sportsmen  of  America  over  his  signature  of 
"Piseco" — says  of  the  influence  and  impressive  nat 
ure  of  these  faithful  pictures  of  life  at  sea:  "Time 
after  time,  when  passing  through  some  of  the  vicissi 
tudes  of  sea-life,  I  have  recalled,  by  a  flash  of  mem 
ory — as  though  I  myself  had  been  there  before — 
some  of  his  descriptions  which  fitted.  I  have  re 
called,  in  gales  at  sea,  in  the  rivers  and  jungles  of 
Africa,  of  Central  and  South  America,  and  when 
cruising  in  the  Caribbean  Sea,  along  the  Isle  of 
Pines,  Tortugas,  and  other  buccaneering  resorts 
made  famous  by  him,  the  adventures  and  scenes  of 
his  creation." 


—  54  — 

Another  gentleman,  now  a  prominent  patron  of 
literature  and  art,  relates  that  in  early  youth,  having 
read  nearly  all  the  sensational  tales  of  the  prolific 
writer,  he  once  enjoyed  the  inexpressible  pleasure  of 
gazing  upon  the  novelist,  and  on  informing  his 
school-mates  that  he  "had  seen  Ned  Buntline,"  the 
awe  and  admiration  of  his  fellows  for  one  thus  fav 
ored  by  a  passing  glimpse  of  their  hero  and  idol, 
knew  no  bounds.  For  many  days  after  he  was  the 
acknowledged  leader  among  his  playmates,  who  re 
garded  him  as  one  that  had  seen  a  supernatural  be 
ing — the  great  and  only  Ned  Buntline. 


CHAPTER^  FOUR 

LIFE  IN  THE  ADIRONDACKS- 
A  HUNTER'S  HOME 

THE  EAGLE'S  NEST 

Where  the  silvery  gleam  of  the  rushing  stream 
Is  so  brightly  seen  o'er  the  rocks  dark  green, 
Where  the  white  pink  grows  by  the  wild  red  rose 
And  the  blue  bird  sings  till  the  welkin  rings. 

Where  the  red  deer  leaps  and  the  panther  creeps, 
And  the  eagles  scream  over  cliff  and  stream, 
Where  the  lilies  bow  their  heads  of  snow, 
And  the  hemlocks  tall  throw  a  shade  o'er  all. 
Where  the  rolling  surf  laves  the  emerald  turf, 
Where  the  trout  leaps  high  at  the  hovering  fly, 
Where  the  sportive  fawn  crops  the  soft  green  lawn, 
And  the  crows'  shrill  cry  bodes  a  tempest  nigh — 
There  is  my  home — my  wildwood  home. 

Where  no  step  intrudes  in  the  dense  dark  woods, 
Where  no  song  is  heard  but  of  breeze  and  bird; 
Where  the  world's  foul  scum  can  never  come; 
Where  friends  are  so  few  that  all  are  true — 
There  is  my  home — my  wildwood  home. 

— Ned  Buntline. 


-56- 

HE  so-called  charms  of  civilization  were 
literally  chains  to  one  of  Ned  Buntline's 
roving  nature,  and  it  is  not  surprising  that 
after  a  sojourn  of  a  few  years  in  New 
York,  he  began  to  chafe  under  the  restraint 
and  formality  of  city  life,  and  to  cast  about  for  an 
opportunity  to  return  to  the  wilderness.  In  a  letter 
to  the  writer,  several  years  ago,  he  remarked  that  he 
had  no  love  for  cities,  but  was  always  happiest 
when  far  removed  from  civilization,  surrounded  by 
woods  and  waters,  where  the  carol  of  birds,  the 
whisper  of  the  breeze,  and  the  roar  of  the  cascade, 
awoke  sweeter  music  to  his  ear  than  all  the  sym 
phonies  of  Beethoven.  His  natural  distaste  for 
city  life  became  intensified  during  his  residence  in 
New  York  and  Philadelphia,  as  the  convivial  habits 
there  formed  came  near  wrecking  the  stalwart 
woodsman,  and  he  determined  to  break  away  from 
the  dangerous  surroundings  and  influences. 

To  think  was  to  act  with  Ned  Buntline,  and  he 
quietly  "folded  his  tent  like  the  Arab,  and  as  silently 
stole  away,"  to  the  wilds  of  the  Adirondack  region, 
then  known  to  the  public  under  the  name  of  John 
Brown's  tract.  The  region  was  famous  only  as  the 
retreat  of  the  visionary  "old  man  of  Ossawatomie," 
and  few  were  aware  of  the  fact  that  it  was  a  para 
dise  of  fish  and  game.  Upon  reaching  this  wild 
locality  Ned  was  once  more  in  his  element,  and  di 
vided  his  time  pretty  equally  between  the  enjoyment 
of  field  sports  and  the  writing  of  sensational  stories 


—  57  — 

for  the  press.  The  spot  selected  for  his  hermitage 
in  the  wilderness,  which  he  christened  "The  Eagle's 
Nest,"  a  romantic  retreat,  glowingly  described  in 
his  little  poem  of  that  title — was  near  the  bank  of 
Eagle  Lake,  one  of  the  three  now  known  as  the  Blue 
Mountain  lakes.  He  gave  the  place  and  many  of 
the  lakes  and  streams  in  that  region  the  names  they 
now  bear,  and  in  his  humble  cabin  lived  as  happy  as 
a  prince,  entertaining  his  friends  who  visited  the 
wilderness,  with  the  proverbial  hospitality  of  a  true 
knight  of  the  trigger. 

Mr.  Chauncey  )Hathorn,  who  has  long  been  fami 
liar  with  almost  every  phase  of  Adirondack  life,  fur 
nishes  the  following  brief  description  of  Ned  Bunt- 
line's  first  appearance  in  that  region,  and  the  circum 
stances  which  led  him  to  make  it  his  home : 

"In  the  fall  of  1856,  I,  with  a  party  of  friends 
from  Saratoga,  visited  the  woods  for  a  hunting  ex 
cursion,  intending  to  remain  some  time,  and  located 
at  what  is  now  Eagle  Lake.  Finding  there  a  log 
house  and  clearing  which  had  been  made  for  lumber 
ing  purposes,  we  occupied  it  by  permission.  The 
party  returned  home  about  New  Years  day,  and  I 
remained  with  two  woodsmen,  one  of  whom  had  been 
a  guide  for  Ned  at  Lake  Piseco  some  time  before. 
On  our  return  to  camp  one  day  we  found  Ned,  with 
a  party  he  had  picked  up  at  Glens  Falls.  They  had 
made  their  way  in  with  a  team  on  the  rude  road. 
When  we  come  in  Ned  made  himself  known,  and  I 
said  to  him:  4I  am  glad  to  meet  you.  I  know  you 


-SB- 
well,  having  read  all  your  books,  and  was  also  a 
subscriber  to  Ned  Buntline's  Own.'    From  this  time 
ever  after  he  was  a  firm  and  genial  friend. 

"The  place  where  we  were  was  soon  after  offered 
for  sale,  and  he  lost  no  time  in  finding  the  owner, 
who  sold  it  to  him  at  a  moderate  price.  His  party 
remained  a  week  and  then  went  out,  Ned  leaving  me 
in  charge  of  the  place  until  he  should  return  in  the 
spring,  to  make  it  his  literary  and  mountain  home. 
After  his  return  I  was  called  home,  and  Ned  ac 
companied  me  to  the  outskirts  of  the  woods,  urg 
ing  me  to  soon  return  and  live  with  him  and  be 
his  guest  as  long  as  I  wished.  {He  desired  a 
housekeeper,  and  I  recommended  to  him  a  bright, 
comely  girl,  Marie  Gardiner,  whom  he  employed 
and  soon  afterward  married.  Before  I  returned  she 
died.  A  few  evergreens  mark  the  resting  place  of 
the  mother  and  child  at  the  Eagle's  Nest. 

"My  health  being  poor,  from  close  confinement  to 
business,  I  decided  to  go  again  to  the  woods,  and  in 
the  spring  of  1859  I  made  my  way  up  to  the  Lakes, 
where  Ned  gave  me  a  cordial  greeting.  There  were 
two  eagles  that  made  their  nest  each  year  opposite 
the  house  on  the  lake,  and  we  never  disturbed  them. 
Their  close  proximity  pleased  him,  and  he  named  his 
home  the  Eagle's  Nest,  and  the  sheet  of  water, 
Eagle  Lake.  It  is  about  one  mile  long,  and  a  lovely 
lake.  The  one  below,  and  the  last  of  the  chain,  he 
named,  Utawanna,  which  signifies  sunshine.  Upon 


—  59  — 

naming  this  lake  he  composed  some  beautiful  lines, 
only  a  portion  of  which  I  now  remember,  namely : 

Where  the  swift  trout  leapeth  freely, 
Where  the  wild  rose  blushing  blossoms 
Where  the  red  deer  stoops  to  drink, 
On  its  mossy  covered  brink; 
Not  a  human  dwelling  near  it — 
'Tis  a  gem  in  living  green — 
Utawanna,  Queen  of  waters, 
In  thy  heavenly  silver  sheen. 

uAt  this  time  Ned  was  writing  stories  for  the 
New  York  Mercury,  and  Mr.  Cauldwell,  the  senior; 
editor,  made  us  a  visit,  and  I  became  well  acquainted 
with  him.    The  editor  and  publisher  was  a  warm  ad 
mirer  of  Ned  Buntline,  and  paid  him  liberally,  as  the 
public  demand  for  his  wild  and  fanciful  stories  made 
a   great   circulation   for  the  Mercury.      He   wrote 
short  stories  for  other  papers,  under  various  signa 
tures,  one  of  his  pseudonyms  being  "Ethelbert,  the 
Wanderer."    His  income  from  his  writings,  when  he 
was  faithful  to  his  work,  would  amount  to  several 
thousand  dollars  per  year,  but  after  completing  a 
long  serial  story  or  fulfilling  a  literary  engagement, 
he  would  often  indulge  in  a  period  of  dissipation — 
though  he  would  strive  vigorously  to  conquer  the 
besetting  weakness,  and  finally  succeeded  in  doing 
so,  I  believe,  and  became  a  strong  temperance  ad 
vocate. 

"The  natives  of  the  country  looked  upon  him  as  a 
wonderful  man.  His  scars  and  wounds  attested  the 
desperate  encounters  he  had  engaged  in,  and  won- 


—  6o  — 

derful  stories  were  told  of  his  courage  and  prowess 
— which  were  in  truth  remarkable.  He  was  very 
fond  of  shooting  and  fishing.  Wild  deer  were  very 
abundant,  and  might  often  be  seen  from  his  door, 
feeding  in  day  time.  He  wrote  but  little  during  the 
day,  but  at  night,  after  a  drink  of  strong  coffee, 
would  do  his  writing  when  all  was  quiet.  He  had  a 
post  office  established  at  his  Eagle's  Nest,  and  he 
employed  a  mail  carrier  to  come  in  on  foot  each 
week,  a  distance  of  twenty-eight  miles,  and  change 
the  mails. 

"In  1860  Ned  made  a  trip  to  New  York,  leaving 
me  to  look  after  his  home,  and  not  long  after  a 
messenger  came  to  ask  me  to  meet  the  irrepressible 
Ned,  and  assist  him  in  bringing  home  a  wife  he  had 
just  married.  I  met  them,  and  it  fell  to  my  lot  to 
take  the  bride  to  her  home  in  a  boat,  while  Ned 
went  with  the  teamster  around  the  road.  The  lady 
at  once  began  to  question  me  in  regard  to  her  future 
home  of  which  she  had  formed  a  somewhat  roman 
tic  idea — apparently  expecting  a  find  a  mansion  in 
the  wilderness.  As  mildly  as  possible  I  gave  a 
clearer  view  of  the  cabin  home,  taking  especial  care 
to  describe  the  beautiful  scenery,  and  the  woman 
gracefully  accepted  the  situation.  She  was  good 
looking  and  intelligent,  but  the  marriage  proved  an 
unhappy  one,  and  trouble  soon  commenced  which 
only  ended  when  Ned  left  for  the  war. 

"Ned  Buntline  had  some  excellent  traits  of  char 
acter.  His  friendship  was  fervid  and  sincere,  he 


—  6i  — 

despised  gambling  and  profane  language,  and 
would  never  employ  any  one  who  would  use  it  in 
his  presence." 

Although  generous  and  hospitable  almost  to  a 
fault,  he  required  due  respect  should  be  shown  on 
the  part  of  his  guests,  and  certain  simple  rules  must 
be  complied  with.  There  must  be  no  hounding  of 
deer  on  or  across  his  premises,  and  no  game  butcher 
would  be  entertained  at  the  Eagle's  Nest.  It  is  said 
that  one  of  the  guides,  Alvah  Dunning,  boasted  that 
he  should  set  his  hounds  after  deer  in  the  vicinity  of 
Ned  Runtime's  home  at  the  first  opportunity,  and 
made  the  threat  that  in  case  of  interference  he 
would  shoot  the  man  who  should  attempt  to  stop 
him.  This  threat  was  repeated  to  Ned,  who  soon 
after  detected  Alvah  crossing  the  little  domain,  and 
at  once  intercepted  him.  Two  of  the  guide's  hounds 
accompanied  him,  and  foreseeing  danger,  he  called 
them  to  heel.  Ned  very  coolly  raised  his  rifle  and 
shot  one  of  the  dogs  so  close  to  Alvah  that  the  bullet 
whistled  uncomfortably  near,  then  warned  the  in 
truder  that  another  bullet  would  be  ready  for  him 
if  he  were  not  out  of  sight  in  five  minutes.  Alvah 
disappeared  from  view  within  one  minute,  running 
at  a  rate  of  speed  never  before  equalled  by  man  in 
that  region,  and  he  was  never  again  known  to  set 
foot  on  the  domain  of  "Ned  Runtime,  the  terrible." 

Another  incident,  related  by  an  intimate  friend, 
indicates  the  spirit  of  true  sportsmanship  and  love 


—  62  — 

of  fair  play,  on  the  part  of  the  rare  old  woodsman. 
One  evening  two  skiffs  were  rowed  up  to  his  land 
ing,  and  the  occupants — two  wealthy  young  sports 
men,  accompanied  by  their  guides, — put  their  shoot 
ing  accoutrements  on  shore,  depending  upon  putting 
in  a  pleasant  night  at  the  Eagle's  Nest.  The  owner 
of  the  cabin  came  down  and  welcomed  the  belated 
hunters.  From  the  bow  of  each  boajt  protruded  the 
saddles  of  a  deer,  and  espying  them  Ned  Buntline 
asked  where  they  were  shot.  With  a  glow  of  con 
scious  pride  the  young  sportsmen  informed  him,  and 
added  that  a  few  more  deer  had  been  killed  the  day 
previous,  all  by  floating.  "Where  are  they?"  asked 
Ned.  "Oh!  they  were  does  and  a  fawn  and  we 
left  them  on  the  bank  as  we  had  no — "  "Hold  on," 
cried  the  veteran  woodsman  at  this  point,  interrupt 
ing  the  speaker,  and  directing  the  guides  to  reload 
the  boat  he  compelled  the  game  butchers  to  seek 
other  quarters.  Entreaties  were  in  vain,  and  as  the 
boats  were  pushed  off  he  delivered  a  lecture  to  the 
occupants  on  the  enormity  of  their  offence  against 
fair  sportsmanship  which  they  doubtless  remem 
bered  ever  after. 

The  novelist  had  no  cause  to  complain  of  monot 
ony  while  living  in  the  great  North  Woods  of  New 
York.  Adventures  seemed  to  follow  each  other 
with  surprising  frequency,  and  he  found  his  rifle  con 
venient  for  almost  daily  use.  One  of  his  exploits 
he  recorded  as  follows,  under  the  title  of 


—  63  — 

A  WOLF  MASSACRE 

It  was  the  winter  of  1858.  I  was  up  in  my  hunter's  cabin 
on  Eagle  Lake,  the  second  of  the  Blue  Mountain  trio  of 
crystal  beauties.  Cold  was  no  name  for  the  weather.  The  ice 
froze  to  over  two  feet  thickness  in  November.  By  the  first 
of  January  it  was  near  four  feet  through,  as  we  found  when 
we  cut  holes  through  which  to  fish  for  salmon  trout.  Thirty 
to  forty  degrees  below  zero  was  the  average. 

Yet  there  came  a  sudden  thaw  in  January — it  only  lasted 
a  couple  of  days,  but  it  left  the  deep  snow  crusted  heavily 
and  the  lakes  a  glare  of  smooth  ice  as  soon  as  the  cold  was 
renewed. 

The  settlers  were  few  and  far  between  in  those  days — 
most  of  them  trappers  and  guides  by  profession,  and  such  a 
thing  as  "crusting"  deer  or  moose  was  unheard  of.  The 
backwoodsmen  were  as  honest  and  manly  as  they  were  brave 
and  true. 

One  day  in  January,  my  hounds,  chained  up  in  their  warm 
dog-house,  made  a  great  fuss,  and  looking  out  on  Eagle  Lake 
in  front  of  my  log  dwelling  I  saw  a  noble  buck,  a  regal 
giant  of  the  forest,  attempting  to  cross  its  glittering  surface. 
He  was  over  half  way  across,  slipping,  falling  and  sliding 
on,  when  I  went  out.  He  did  not  seem  to  fear  me,  though 
he  must  have  seen  me.  I  believe  the  old  fellow  knew  no 
white  man  would  shoot  him  out  of  season,  and  was  actually 
coming  in  for  protection.  For  as  I  looked  at  him  I  heard  a 
series  of  howls  across  the  lake,  and  knew  that  a  big  gang  of 
wolves  was  on  the  trail  of  the  deer. 

I  hurried  in  and  got  my  rifle,  an  Ogden  double-barrel, 
made  in  Oswego,  carrying  a  32  to  the  pound  conical  ball. 
By  the  time  I  had  got  it  and  my  ammunition  ready,  and 
rushed  down  to  a  clump  of  cedars  on  the  lake-side,  the 
noble  buck  was  within  two  hundred  yards  of  the  shore  and 
doing  his  uttermost  to  get  there,  for  the  wolves  were  al 
most  up  to  him. 


-64- 

Two  or  three  tremendous  leaps  brought  him  within  easy 
rifle  range,  one  hundred  yards,  but  the  accursed  wolves,  at 
least  twenty  in  number,  were  on  him,  and  in  a  second  he 
was  down,  with  every  jaw  fastened  in  him  that  could  find  a 
place  to  bite. 

Oh!  if  I  had  then  had  the  glorious  "Old  Reliable"  that 
now  stands  in  one  corner  of  my  sanctum,  I  believe  I  could 
have  killed  every  wolf  in  the  gang  before  they  knew  what  I 
was  doing,  while,  they,  half-starved,  were  gorging  on  their 
prey. 

As  it  was,  while  they  were  plunging,  growling  and  tear 
ing  the  poor  animal  to  pieces,  I  sent  in  shot  after  shot,  as 
fast  as  I  could  load  and  fire. 

It  was  not  until  nine  of  their  number  were  dead  or  dis 
abled  that  the  wolves  found  out  they  were  in  an  unhealthy 
neighborhood,  and  several  of  these  limped  away  when  they 
went  at  last,  leaving  a  bloody  trail  on  the  glittering  ice. 

In  that  brief  time  that  deer  was  so  nearly  devoured  that 
you  couldn't  find  a  bone  that  was  not  broken  or  a  bit  of 
meat  big  enough  for  a  bulldog's  swallow.  And  some  of  the 
dead  wolves  had  their  hides  torn  so  badly  they  were  almost 
worthless  by  the  numerous  jaws  of  their  mates  in  the  blind, 
mad  struggle  for  a  feast. 

I  did  not  make  much  on  my  wolf  hunt  besides  the  fun  of 
killing  them  and  avenging  the  noble  buck.  There  was  no 
bounty  on  wolves,  though  I  got  ten  dollars  a  head  on  three 
panthers  shot  a  little  later. 

Ah,  what  a  change  from  then  and  now !  The  woods  were 
full  of  deer ;  moose,  though  not  plenty,  were  often  seen,  and 
trout,  speckled  and  salmon,  were  so  plenty  that  twenty  min 
utes'  fishing  any  time,  and  almost  anywhere,  would  feed  a 
half  dozen  hearty  men  for  the  day. 

Shot-guns  were  never  heard  of — rifles  were  our  only 
weapons,  and  a  red  rag  or  a  bit  of  venison  just  as  good  as 
a  whole  book  of  flies,  for  all  practical  purposes,  in  trouting. 


-6S- 

It  makes  me  sick  to  go  there  now.  A  lover  of  Nature  and 

Nature's  gifts  shudders  at  the  advance  of dudes  and  their 

fancy  accessories.  Hunters  and  anglers  go  beyond  civiliza 
tion,  if  they  know  themselves. 

On  another  occasion  he  very  narrowly  escaped 
with  his  life,  when  his  cabin  burned  to  the  ground 
one  bitter  a  Id  winter's  night,  as  related  in  a  com 
munication  to  one  of  the  *sporting  journals  a  few 
years  later.  Of  this  experience  he  gives  a  very  vivid 
description,  entitled, 

BURNED  OUT 

I  had  gone  up  for  my  Fall  deer  shooting,  and  finding  a 
hunter's  cabin,  evidently  long  unused,  near  the  head  of  In 
dian  River,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  test  a  Winter  there  or 
as  much  of  it  as  I  could  stand.  I  had  an  old  guide  who  could 
pack  his  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  at  a  time,  and  by  his 
aid  I  had  such  stores  as  I  needed  packed  in  before  the  snows 
were  deep.  The  cabin,  built  against  and  partly  under  a 
rocky  ledge,  was  made  of  spruce  logs,  covered  with  hem 
lock  bark,  and  had  a  door,  rude,  but  sufficient,  made  of  a 
couple  of  split  slabs,  standing  upright.  Windows  were  not 
needed — there  were  air  holes  enough  between  the  logs  de 
spite  the  moss  stuffing  we  put  in. 

Inside  I  had  a  small  sheet-iron  camp-stove,  which  could 
be  made  red-hot  with  a  double  handful  of  birch  bark.  Out 
side,  old  Birch,  my  guide,  cut  and  piled  about  twelve  or  fif 
teen  cords  of  birch,  beech  and  maple  wood  of  large  size  for  a 
camp-fire  when  I  wanted  it.  There  was  plenty  of  dead  tim 
ber  lying  around  loose  on  the  banks  of  the  little  lake  near 


*The  Turf,  Field  and  Farm  (1882),  when  the  offices  of  the 
well-known  sportsmen's  journal  were  burned  in  the  fire  which 
consumed  the  old  World  building  on  Park  Row,  New  York. 


—  66  — 

camp,  so  I  had  no  danger  of  a  freeze-out.  I  had  snow-shoes 
to  travel  with  when  I  desired,  and  when  he  left  Birch  was 
to  come  in  every  two  weeks  to  bring  my  mail  and  carry  out 
manuscript,  for  I  worked  there,  as  I  always  do  wherever  I 
am,  penfully. 

For  the  first  six  weeks  after  Winter  set  in  I  had  a  glor 
ious  time.  Hermit  life  just  suited  me.  I  had  plenty  to  eat 
and  drink,  good  reading  matter,  and  all  of  out-doors  to  my 
self  when  I  wanted  exercise.  Writing  sketches  and  stories 
filled  up  the  intervals. 

Almost  every  night  I  had  a  concert.  A  gang  of  wolves 
played  the  principal  part.  A  panther  solo  made  the  varia 
tion.  I  was  happy.  No  temptation  to  deviate  from  the 
rules  of  health  and  morality  appeared.  I  was  at  church  every 
day.  The  blue  arch  of  heaven  was  its  dome,  the  great  pines 
and  maples  and  birch  trees  formed  its  columns,  the  lofty 
hills,  the  voiceless  lake,  the  singing  rills  which  never  froze, 
its  lessons — the  contemplation  of  the  God-created  forest  its 
sermons. 

But  I  went  to  sleep  and  pleasant  dreams  one  night  at  an 
early  hour  to  wake  at  or  near  midnight  under  a  light  as 
brilliant  as  a  salamander  could  desire.  Some  spark  from 
my  slender  stove  pipe  must  have  fallen  on  the  half  rotten 
roof  back  of  the  straw  covering  in  front,  under  the  rocks.  A 
fierce  north  wind  that  was  blowing  most  likely  fanned  it  to 
life,  and  when  I  woke  fire  was  above  and  all  around  me, 
for  fire  had  dropped  from  above  on  my  bedding,  and  it  was 
ablaze  as  I  sprung  to  the  door. 

I  had  only  time  to  snatch  my  rifle,  ammunition,  clothes 
and  snow-shoes  from  a  corner  not  yet  afire  and  get  outside, 
when  the  hut  was  all  ablaze. 

I  dressed  out  on  the  crust,  with  the  themometer  away  be 
low  zero,  but  did  not  feel  the  cold  in  the  excitement.  After 
I  was  in  my  thick  woolen  clothes,  and  my  moose-skin  mocca 
sins  on,  I  began  to  think  of  many  things  inside  that  I  might 


-67- 

have  got  out  and  needed.  But  it  was  too  late.  They  had 
gone  where  your  noble  library  has  gone,  to  ashes. 

Sadly  I  looked  on  the  fire  till  it  smouldered  down,  keeping 
warm  as  I  sat  on  my  unconsumed  wood-pile,  and  then  by  the 
early  light  of  the  morning  star  I  laid  my  course  for  the  little 
hamlet  of  Lake  Pleasant,  about  thirty  miles  away.  I  was 
traveling  "light"  on  an  empty  stomach,  snow-shoeing  was 
fair,  and  I  got  there  to  dinner. 

I  never  tried  complete  hermit  life  since.  I  was  then  and 
there  cured  of  all  desire  for  it. 


CHAPTER^  FIVE 

NED  BUNTLINE  IN  THE  CIVIL  WAR 


OON  after  the  outbreak  of  the  late  Civil 
War,  the  gallant  Ned  Buntline,  whose  love 
for  the  stars  and  stripes  had  been  tested  on 
the  battlefields  of  Mexico,  and  the  earlier 
Seminole  war,  again  enlisted  under  the 
Union  flag,  and  served  with  credit  and  distinction  in 
the  hotly-contested  battles  of  the  terrible,  and,  as  it 
has  been  termed,  "irrepressible  conflict."  His  for 
mer  experience  in  border  warfare,  his  intrepid  cour 
age,  coolness  and  daring  combined  to  fit^him  admira 
bly  for  the  position  which  was  soon  assigned  to  him 
— that  of  "chief  of  scouts,"  with  the  rank  of  colonel. 
The  dashing  spirit  and  manner  of  Colonel  Judson 
inspired  his  soldiers  with  confidence  and  admiration, 
and  it  is  recorded  that  his  nerve  and  gallantry, 
backed  by  the  brave  bordermen  under  his  command, 
proved  victorious  by  unexpected  assaults  against 
superior  numbers.  He  was  essentially  a  fighter  of 
the  hurricane  order,  and  re-enacted  on  several  oc 
casions,  though  on  a  smaller  scale,  the  impetuous, 


-69- 

resistless  charges  so  characteristic  of  Sheridan  and 
Custer.  On  the  other  hand,  where  caution  and 
strategy  were  required,  Colonel  Judson  was  equal  to 
the  emergency,  and  his  knowledge  of  the  Indian  and 
guerilla  mode  of  warfare  often  enabled  him  to  check 
the  ravages  of  the  vindictive  fighters  of  the  frontier. 
During  the  terrible  strife  Colonel  Judson  was  un 
consciously  laying  the  foundation  for  greater  fame 
and  fortune  as  a  writer  of  fiction.  It  was  during 
this  period,  and  at  the  close  of  the  war,  that  he 
formed  the  intimate  acquaintance  of  the  brave  scouts 
of  the  border,  James  B.  Hickock,  "Wild  Bill;"  Wil 
liam  F.  Cody,  "Buffalo  Bill;"  Capt.  Jack  Crawford; 
J.  B.  Omohundra,  "Texas  Jack,"  and  other  daring 
heroes  of  the  West,  who  afterward  figured  promi 
nently  in  his  most  successful  novels.  In  his  spirited 
reminiscences  of  the  war,  scattered  through  the 
pages  of  many  periodicals  of  the  day,  Ned  Buntline 
has  given  graphic  pen  pictures  of  the  times  that  lit 
erally  tried  men's  souls.  The  following  sketch,  orig 
inally  contributed  by  our  hero  to  the  columns  of  the 
Turf,  Field  and  Farm,  gives  a  glimpse  of  the  grim 
glory  of  war: 

A  WAR-TIME   REMINISCENCE 

Meeting,  not  long  ago,  to  my  great  delight,  one  of  your 
old  subscribers  and  best  friends,  Major  Schieffelin,  of  the 
great  drug  firm  of  W.  H.  Schieffelin  &  Co.,  recalled  an 
incident  very  memorable  in  his  life  and  mine.  He  was  the 
third  major  in  Gen.  Charles  C.  Dodge's  First  N.  Y. 
Mounted  Rifles,  and  joined  the  regiment  about  the  same 


—  70  — 

time  that  I  had  the  honor  of  taking  saddle  with  as  fine  a 
body  of  men  as  ever  touched  spur  to  flank. 

The  day  I  reached  the  regiment,  early  in  1862,  there  was 
a  reconnoisance  ordered  to  feel  of  the  enemy  on  the  lines  of 
the  Blackwater,  and  to  make  a  push  toward  Petersburg  to 
see  what  his  strength  was.  There  was  a  brigade  of  infantry 
under  General  Wessels;  a  section  of  Battery  L,  regular 
United  States  artillery,  under  Lieut.  Beecher;  the  howitzer 
battery  of  First  Mounted  Rifles  under  Fairgraves,  and  the 
First  Mounted  Rifles  under  Col.  Dodge,  afterward  a  general 
when  only  twenty-three  years  of  age,  and  the  finest-looking 
man  that  I  ever  saw  in  the  saddle.  Six  feet  two  in  height, 
elegantly  formed,  with  a  classic,  fearless  face,  a  splendid 
horseman,  he  looked  every  inch  the  soldier.  He  had  already 
served  abroad  in  the  Queen's  Light  Guards,  the  finest  cav 
alry  in  England. 

When  within  half  a  mile  of  Blackwater  Bridge  the  com 
mand  was  halted  in  a  depression  near  a  stream,  scouts  sent 
ahead  and  the  enemy  discovered  in  force  across  the  Black- 
water,  with  a  long  range  of  masked  rifle  pits  beyond  the 
abutments  of  the  bridge,  which,  with  the  steam  saw  mill  at 
that  point,  they  had  burned. 

The  undersigned  volunteered  alone  to  find  where  the  en 
emy  was,  and  did  find  them,  rather  suddenly.  They  were  so 
well  masked  that  he  gained  the  river  bank  above  the  ruins 
of  the  mill,  rode  down  to  the  water's  edge  and  skirted  along 
the  shore  to  the  east  abutment  of  the  bridge,  without  seeing 
a  man,  or  anything  but  a  thick  growth  of  bushes  on  the 
high  bank  just  beyond  the  river — there  very  deep  and  about 
100  or  130  feet  wide.  The  bridge  had  been  a  wooden  struc 
ture,  single  span. 

Just  as  the  rider  reached  the  foot  of  the  abutments,  a 
single  confederate  officer  rose  among  the  bushes  and 
shouted : 

"Halt,  you  d d  Yank!     Halt  and  surrender!" 


"Not  much!"  I  replied.  We  were  almost  in  pistol  shot, 
and  all  was  so  still  an  ordinary  tone  of  voice  was  audible. 
"Not  quite  ready!" 

"Fire!"  he  yelled. 

And  at  that  every  bush  seemed  to  have  covered  a  man,  for 
full  two  hundred  riflemen  poured  a  concentrated  volley  on 
me.  The  depression  from  the  high  bank  to  where  I  sat  in 
my  saddle  was  full  thirty  degrees,  and  every  shot  went  over 
my  head.  The  air  seemed  hot  with  bullets;  but  nary  a 
scratch  to  me  or  my  horse.  But  the  way  that  horse  went 
over  the  bank  and  out  of  range  was  a  caution  to  those  who 
practice  electric  locomotion. 

To  ride  back,  report  to  the  commanding  officer,  and  get 
to  the  mounted  rifles  was  quick  work. 

The  Thirty-ninth  Illinois  and  Twenty-sixth  Ohio  were 
ordered  forward  as  a  skirmish  line,  two  companies  of  the 
Mounted  Rifles  dismounted,  with  their  Sharpe's  carbines, 
and  Beecher's  section  of  Battery  L,  two  guns,  sent  forward. 

The  writer  was  given  a  special  squad  of  sharp  shooters 
from  the  Rifles  to  feel  the  way,  place  the  artillery  and  do 
about  as  he  pleased. 

He  gave  Beecher  his  points,  showed  him  by  two  tall  trees 
the  limits,  so  far  as  he  had  seen,  of  the  enemy's  line,  and 
while  the  battery  galloped  to  a  spot  masked  by  bushes  not 
four  hundred  yards  from  the  enemy,  the  infantry  named  ad 
vanced  in  treble  skirmish  line,  cautiously,  under  cover. 

When  I  had  ridden  back  I  had  seen  close  to  the  east  abut 
ment  of  the  bridge,  near  a  rail  fence,  a  huge  sycamore  tree, 
a  splendid  cover.  With  six  men  from  Company  C,  I  think, 
and  two  from  A,  I  made  a  rush  for  that  tree,  and  we  reached 
it  unharmed,  I  made  the  men  lie  down  and  hand  me  up  a 
loaded  rifle  when  mine  was  emptied.  They  were  hidden  by 
the  large  trunk  entirely.  The  opposite  bank  was  now  al 
most  a  sheet  of  fire,  though  few  men  could  be  seen,  they 
were  so  well  masked.  Our  skirmishers  were  sending  in 
lead  hot  and  fast. 


—  72  — 

Beecher  opened  fire  with  his  two  rifled  guns,  but  his  shot 
(shrapnel  he  was  using)  went  forty  feet  too  high. 

One  of  my  men,  Corporal  Kane,  now,  I  think,  in  New 
York,  crept  back  and  told  Beecher  from  me  how  much  de 
pression  was  needed  to  reach  their  works. 

Meanwhile  Lieutenant  Wheelan,  brother  of  our  then 
Major  Wheelan,  who  is  now  a  senior  captain  in  the  Second 
regular  United  States  cavalry,  Gen.  Augur's  old  regiment, 
tried  to  creep  through  the  rail  fence  to  reach  my  tree,  from 
behind  which  I  was  firing  as  often  as  I  could  see  a  man  on 
the  other  side. 

Poor  Wheelan  was  shot  through  the  throat  as  he  raised 
his  head  to  speak  to  me. 

Amid  a  shower  of  bullets  two  of  the  heroes,  who  had 
held  the  tree  with  me  all  this  time,  caught  him,  dragged  him 
through  the  fence  and  keeping  in  the  tree  line,  carried  him 
to  the  rear,  where  he  died  in  a  few  minutes.  And  now  I 
saw  Schieffelin  for  the  first  time  under  fire. 

He  had  ridden  up  on  hearing  that  Wheelan  was  shot,  and 
there  he  sat  in  his  saddle,  his  plumed  hat  over  his  fair  young 
face,  a  blue  cloak  with  its  red  lining,  thrown  back  over  his 
shoulder,  curiously  looking  at  the  enemy's  works,  just  as 
Beecher's  battery  got  in  its  work  at  the  right  elevation.  A 
soldier  myself,  of  two  long,  hard  wars,  used  to  fire,  knowing 
that  he  was  for  the  first  time  under  fire,  I  watched  him 
with  a  curiosity  that  made  me  forget  any  danger  myself, 
though  several  bullets  grazed  me  where  I  stood.  Bullet 
after  bullet  whistled  over  and  about  him,  and  he  did  not 
seem  to  mind  them  a  bit,  until  an  officer  in  the  Thirty-ninth 
Illinois  gave  him  a  caution,  and  was  hit  himself  a  second 
after. 

"This  is  war,  is  it? — rather  hot,  but  they  don't  kill  every 
shot."  was  his  cool  remark,  made  within  ten  feet  of  me  as 
he  turned  his  horse  and  rode  back  slowly  to  the  battalion. 


—  73  — 

Ten  minutes  later  the  battery  had  shelled  the  enemy  back, 
and  the  Eleventh  Pennsylvania  cavalry,  Col.  Spear,  having 
come  up,  a  regular  cavalry  charge  was  ordered,  and  both 
commands,  the  rifles  leading,  swam  the  river,  captured  the 
enemy's  works,  chased  the  force,  superior  to  our  own,  nearly 
to  Ivor,  a  large  intrenched  camp,  and  then  turning  to  the 
right  captured  the  picket  guards  at  Joiner's  Ford,  seven  miles 
above,  and  rejoined  the  infantry  at  the  Isle  of  Wight  court 
house. 

Surgeon  Boyd,  of  the  One  Hundred  and  Twelfth  New 
York  was  along  as  a  volunteer,  and  his  horse  wouldn't  swim 
worth  a  cent.  If  he  is  living  perhaps  he  will  tell  your  readers 
who  pulled  him  from  his  saddle  and  landed  him  on  the  right 
side  of  Jordan,  where  he  found  his  horse  in  time  to  keep 
up  with  the  command. 

I'd  like  to  see  that  old  sycamore.  I'll  bet,  if  it  yet  stands, 
and  has  not  been  hacked  at,  that  twenty  pounds  of  bullets, 
shot  at  the  head  and  shoulders  of  the  writer — that  was  all 
the  target  they  had — can  be  found  in  that  tree. 

I  have  never  ceased  to  regret  that  Gen.  Dodge  and  Major 
Schieffelin  did  not  remain  in  the  service.  They  would  have 
held  their  own  and  more — they  were  all  dash  and  courage. 
But  business  calls,  matrimony,  and  an  aversion  to  the  politi 
cal  promotions  they  had  to  wince  under — men  whose  service 
as  ward  politicians  gave  them  political  preference — did  the 
work,  and  both  resigned,  with  glory  waiting  to  crown  their 
brows.  They  were  idolized  by  the  men  under  them,  who 
would  have  followed  them  to  death  without  drawing  rein. 

This  is  but  a  desultory  sketch,  a  pleasant  memory  of  hot 
work,  but  it  is  yours.  If  the  major  would  only  give  it  he 
could  describe  the  affair  far  better  than  'tis  here  recorded. 


CHAPTER^  SIX 

UNJUST  IMPRISONMENT  OF 
NED  BUNTLINE 


NOTHER  episode  in  the  war  record  of 
Colonel  Judson,  which  has  been  incorrectly, 
if  not  maliciously,  distorted,  was  the  period 
of  temporary  incarceration  at  Fort  Hamil 
ton.  The  true  version  of  this  affair  has 
been  recently  given  by  Major  T.  P.  McElrath,  the 
popular  writer  of  war  stories,  as  follows : 

Happening  to  encounter  recently  a  newspaper  account  of 
the  exploits  of  the  late  Edward  Z.  C.  Judson — more  popu 
larly  known  to  the  past  generation  by  his  nom  de  plume  of 
"Ned  Buntline" — the  author  of  some  of  the  most  blood-curd 
ling,  hair-raising  novels  in  American  literature,  it  flashed 
upon  my  memory  that  the  novelist  had  once  been  a  prisoner 
in  my  special  custody  at  Fort  Hamilton,  New  York  Harbor. 
The  post  was  not  utilized  during  the  war  as  a  military  pris 
on,  nor  is  its  history  associated  with  the  records  of  captives, 
famous  or  infamous,  as  military  or  civilian  opponents  of 
the  nation's  integrity  as  are  those  of  Forts  Lafayette,  Mon 
roe,  Warren,  McHenry  and  Jefferson.  Nevertheless,  within 
an  interval  of  a  few  months  three  men  were  incarcerated  in 
Fort  Hamilton,  all  of  them  soldiers,  and  all  three  arrested 


—  75  — 

by  the  unusual  exercise  of  arbitrary  power  without  the  pre 
ferment  of  charges  against  them  which  would  have  insured 
them  the  benefit  of  trial  by  court  martial.  As  the  whole  cir 
cumstances  of  these  cases  have  never  found  their  way  into 
public  print,  many  of  their  attendant  facts  being  known  only 
to  myself,  it  occurred  to  me  that  their  recital  might  consti 
tute  an  interesting  contribution  to  the  history  of  that  period. 

The  first  of  the  three  individuals  referred  to  was  an  officer 
of  high  rank  whose  ability  in  both  military  and  civilian, 
branches  of  service  prior  to  and  since  the  war  of  the  rebel 
lion  earned  for  him  world-wide  distinction.  In  the  second 
Army  Register  of  1861,  issued  after  the  first  reorganization 
of  the  regular  army,  the  name  of  Charles  P.  Stone  appears 
seventh  in  rank  in  the  list  of  brigadier  generals  of  volun 
teers,  Generals  Porter,  Franklin  and  W.  T.  Sherman  being 
his  immediate  predecessors  and  U.  S.  Grant  being  ten  "files" 
below  him.  General  Stone's  career,  including  his  still  unex 
plained  imprisonment  of  over  six  months'  duration,  is  too 
familiar  to  the  American  people  to  require  detailed  relation 
in  this  sketch.  I  have  felt  constrained,  however,  to  make  this 
brief  allusion  to  him  from  the  circumstance  that  after  having 
been  the  first  man,  who,  in  January,  1861,  was  mustered 
into  service  for  the  defense  of  the  national  capital,  he  be 
came  a  few  months  later  the  first  military  prisoner  confined 
during  the  war  in  Fort  Hamilton.  He  was  arrested  at  mid 
night  on  the  8th  of  February,  1862,  while  commanding  a 
corps  of  12,000  men  in  Virginia,  and  was  placed  in  close 
captivity  and  a  cold  ear  turned  to  his  demands  for  an  ex 
planation  of  the  outrage. 

Fort  Lafayette  was  the  prison  to  which  he  was  consigned 
and  his  custodian  was  the  sturdy  Martin  Burke,  lieutenant 
colonel  of  the  Third  United  States  artillery,  a  strict  military 
constructionist,  who  earned  for  himself  a  wide-spread  fame 
by  the  grim  literalness  which  he  displayed  in  managing  the 
hospitalities  of  that  isolated  and  dreaded  "bastile."  No 


-76- 

charges  were  ever  preferred  against  General  Stone,  and  about 
the  middle  of  July,  1862,  he  received  permission  to  take 
quarters  at  Fort  Hamilton  on  the  neighboring  main  land, 
which  his  wife  and  daughter  were  allowed  to  share  with 
him.  Finally,  on  August  16th,  he  was  abruptly  turned 
loose,  being  fully  released  from  arrest,  though  nearly  another 
year  elapsed  before  Secretary  Stanton  permitted  him  to  again 
assume  command  in  the  field.  During  his  few  weeks'  resi 
dence  at  Fort  Hamilton  he  was  very  popular  with  the  officers 
of  the  garrison  whose  sympathies  were  naturally  brought  into 
play  by  the  mysterious  irregularity  of  his  captivity.  To  the 
youngsters  of  the  "mess"  it  was  a  treat  to  witness  the  genial 
courtesy  which  uniformly  marked  his  association  with  them, 
while  his  soldier's  dignity  furnished  them  a  desirable  model 
for  imitation.  The  subsequent  distinguished  career  of  Gen 
eral  Stone  has  recently  been  exhaustively  related  in  the  news 
papers,  through  the  interest  excited  by  his  sudden  and  unex 
pected  death  in  New  York  during  the  last  week  of  Janu 
ary,  1887. 

The  two  successors  of  General  Stone  as  prisoners  in  Fort 
Hamilton  were  men  of  a  wholly  different  type.  My  recol 
lection  of  them  was  revived  by  the  newspaper  paragraphs 
referred  to  above,  which  contained  an  inaccurate  and  inade 
quate  statement  regarding  an  episode  in  Mr.  Judson's  career 
that  has  never  to  this  writing  been  related.  The  writer  of 
that  article  summed  up  his  subject's  war  record  in  the  fol 
lowing  words:  "During  the  war  he  was  arrested  and  con 
fined  in  Fort  Lafayette  for  overstaying  his  parole."  That 
is  rather  too  scanty  a  recognition  of  his  services  in  the  army, 
and  moreover  it  is  not  true.  As  a  matter  of  fact  Judson 
was  never  confined  in  Fort  Lafayette.  His  single  experience 
as  a  prisoner  of  consequence  during  his  military  career  re 
lated  solely  to  a  captivity  in  Fort  Hamilton  during  the  sum 
mer  of  1863.  At  that  time  the  "military  post  of  the  city 
and  harbor  of  New  York,"  with  headquarters  at  Fort  Ham- 


—  77  — 

ilton,  was  commanded  by  Brevet  Brigadier  General  Harvey 
Brown,  Colonel  of  the  Fifth  United  States  artillery — the 
brave  and  skillful  officer,  who,  a  few  weeks  subsequent  to 
the  occurrences  related  in  this  sketch  rescued  the  city  of  New 
York  from  the  hands  of  the  largest  and  most  evil-disposed 
mob  that  has  ever  come  to  the  surface  in  the  United  States. 
The  "post"  comprised  all  the  forts  and  military  commands 
in  the  vicinity  of  New  York,  excepting  Governor's  Island 
and  Fort  Lafayette,  besides  the  hospital  and  convalescent  de 
pots  at  David's,  Hart's  and  Riker's  Islands.  The  garrison 
of  this  "post,"  exclusive  of  the  New  York  headquarters  and 
staff  of  Gen.  Wall,  who  commanded  the  department  of  the 
East,  was  composed  of  the  headquarters  and  two  mounted 
batteries  of  the  Fifth  United  States  artillery,  battalions  of 
several  regiments  of  regular  infantry  which  had  been  sent 
North  to  replenish  their  forces  decimated  in  McClellan's 
peninsular  campaign,  and  some  volunteer  regiments  recently 
reorganized  after  having  been  mustered  out  at  the  end  of 
their  original  two  years'  enlistment.  General  Brown  had 
an  office  in  Grand  street,  in  New  York,  and  had  organized  a 
military  patrol  for  the  city  in  the  shape  of  a  volunteer  com 
pany  which  he  designated  the  invalid  corps,  and  which  wras 
the  object  of  his  special  and  affectionate  solicitude. 

One  fine  afternoon  in  the  early  summer  of  1863  a  corporal 
of  the  invalid  corps,  with  a  file  of  men  escorting  a  prisoner, 
reported  to  me  at  Fort  Hamilton,  where  I  was  serving  as 
post  quartermaster.  The  captive  was  a  tall,  broad-shoul 
dered  handsome  man,  wearing  a  combination  of  civilian's  and 
soldier's  costume,  and  bearing  himself  with  the  air  of  a 
man  accustomed  to  command  rather  than  obey.  With  him 
I  received  a  note  from  Gen.  Brown,  in  New  York,  directing 
me  briefly  to  lock  the  prisoner  in  a  casemate  and  to  keep 
the  key  carefully  in  my  own  pocket.  An  empty  casemate 
recently  vacated  by  a  departing  officer  of  the  garrison  was 
selected  for  the  purpose,  and  was  hastily  furnished  with  an 


-78- 

iron  bedstead,  a  couple  of  chairs  and  a  few  other  conveni 
ences  from  my  own  quarters,  furnished  apartments  for  stran 
gers  not  being  provided  at  that  post.  Shortly  after  leaving 
the  prisoner  to  his  reflections,  I  was  handed  a  note  which 
he  had  passed  through  a  window  to  a  passing  soldier.  The 
missive,  the  original  of  which  lies  before  me  as  I  write, 
reads  as  follows: 

"If  Lieutenant  McElrath  will  have  the  kindness  to  loan 
me  a  book  or  two  I  shall  be  sincerely  obliged. 
Respectfully,  etc., 

"EDWARD  Z.  C.  JUDSON. 

Recognizing  the  name  at  once  I  knew  my  prisoner  to  be 
the  redoubtable  "Ned  Buntline."  The  great  sensational  nov 
elist  was  reluctantly  contributing  his  share  toward  a  minor 
chapter  of  the  history  of  the  war  in  the  same  hurried  and 
peremptory  manner  in  which  doubtless  the  heroes  of  his  own 
lurid  fiction  were  unexpectedly  caused  to  encounter  the 
shocks  of  adverse  fate.  I  sent  the  messenger  back  with  an 
armful  of  literature  and  arranged  matters  so  that  a  fresh 
supply  could  be  provided  at  the  captive's  will. 

On  General  Brown's  arrival  at  Fort  Hamilton  in~"the 
evening  I  learned  that  Mr. — or  rather  Sergeant — Judson 
had  been  placed  in  durance  at  the  special  request  of  his  wife. 
He  had  come  North  from  "the  field"  on  furlough,  and  had 
not  only  overstayed  his  allotted  time — a  circumstance  which 
of  itself  might  not  have  provoked  connubial  dissension — but 
he  had  become  irritable  in  his  days  of  inactivity,  being  em 
phatically  one  of  that  restless  class  who  "prey  upon  high  ad 
venture,  nor  can  tire  of  aught  but  rest."  His  spouse,  ac 
cordingly  thought  the  easiest  way  to  restore  peace  in  the 
family  would  be  to  pack  its  head  off  to  the  regiment.  That, 
however,  was  not  a  thing  that  could  be  at  once  accomplished, 
as  his  command  was  somewhere  in  the  distant  South,  and  it 
was  necessary  to  wait  until  the  quartermaster's  department 
should  despatch  a  vessel  in  that  direction.  In  all  likelihood 


-79- 

the  mere  overstaying  of  his  furlough  would  not  under  the 
circumstances  of  the  period  have  subjected  him  to  General 
Brown's  special  displeasure.  New  York  at  that  time  was 
crowded  with  volunteer  soldiers  stiiving  to  return  to  their 
commands  from  furlough  or  sick  leave,  and  in  addition  to 
extensive  barracks  erected  for  their  accommodation  in  the 
Battery,  and  the  City  Hall  Park,  large  numbers  were  con 
stantly  encamped  on  the  Fort  Hamilton  reservation.  The 
tide  was  incessantly  ebbing  and  flowing.  Detachments  were 
shipped  Southward  several  times  a  week,  but  their  disap 
pearance  was  unnoticed,  their  places  being  instantly  filled 
by  new  arrivals  from  the  interior.  But  General  Brown,  albeit 
he  was  famous  in  the  army  as  a  rigid  martinet — which  in 
truth  means  simply  an  officer  who  respects  his  calling  suffi 
ciently  to  do  his  duty  conscientiously — was  in  addition  a 
humane  man,  with  profound  and  delicate  respect  for  the  fair 
sex.  And  this  woman's  complaint  of  ill-treatment  excited 
his  ire  against  the  luckless  chevroned  scribe,  and  impelled 
him  to  order  the  latter  to  be  locked  up  as  I  have  said,  in  a 
brick  archway  in  the  bowels  of  Fort  Hamilton's  granite  walls. 
His  captivity,  however,  was  not  particularly  galling.  On 
the  following  day  Mrs.  Judson  presented  herself  at  the  fort 
and  was  at  once  allowed  to  visit  her  husband.  She  brought 
him  a  supply  of  stationery,  and  he  at  once  betook  himself  to 
novel  writing.  Each  forenoon  she  made  her  appearance  at 
the  post,  and  it  was  rumored  in  the  garrison  that  in  the 
few  days  that  his  confinement  lasted  he  had  written  three 
blood-curdling  novels,  which  his  wife  found  a  market  for  in 
the  city.  I  regret  that  in  the  pressure  of  more  important 
business  I  had  not  sufficient  curiosity  at  the  time  to  ascer 
tain  their  titles. 

A  few  days  after  Judson's  incarceration  Gen.  Brown  sent 
me  another  prisoner,  with  similar  injunctions  as  to  his  safe 
keeping.  This  captive  was  a  young  man  dressed  in  the  fa 
tigue  uniform  of  a  commissioned  officer,  and  presenting  on 


—  8o  — 

his  countenance  and  in  his  general  appearance,  evidence  of 
recent  over-indulgence  in  drink.  He  was  a  German,  with  a 
very  imperfect  knowledge  of  the  English  language.  My  in 
structions  with  regard  to  him  were  very  plain,  and  I  clapped 
him  into  the  same  apartment  with  Judson  and  left  him  to 
cool  off,  without  at  the  time  inquiring  his  name  or  the  cause 
of  the  singularly  disgraceful  manner  in  which  he  had  been 
projected  upon  my  notice. 

When  I  reported  the  new  arrival  to  General  Brown  on 
his  return  at  the  point  that  evening  I  found  the  latter  highly 
incensed  over  the  circumstances  which  had  led  to  his  arrest. 
It  appeared  that  the  German,  after  loading  himself  with 
beer  in  some  East  Side  saloon,  had  become  engaged  in  a 
dispute  with  the  people  of  the  establishment  which  resulted 
in  a  lively  fight.  The  military  man  succeeded  in  worsting 
his  opponents  and  in  clearing  the  apartment  of  both  visitors 
and  attendants.  Then  hastily  closing  the  front  door,  he 
armed  himself  with  the  piece  of  scantling  with  which  it  was 
barred  at  night  when  shut  to  exclude  the  outside  world,  and 
stood  ready  to  repel  an  assault.  This  was  not  long  delayed. 
Planted  by  the  door  the  hero  of  the  evening  made  such  a 
vigorous  defense  with  his  formidable  weapon  that  the  assail 
ing  party  were  twice  repelled  with  considerable  effusion  of 
blood  and  some  severe  bruises.  Then,  taking  advantage  of 
their  discomfiture,  he  made  a  sudden  sortie,  brandishing  his 
club,  and  before  the  astonished  host  divined  his  purpose,  he 
rushed  past  them  and  was  quickly  out  of  sight.  As  he  was 
hastening  in  the  direction  of  Broadway  he  met  a  party  be 
longing  to  Gen.  Brown's  Veteran  Reserves  patrolling  the 
streets  in  search  of  wandering  and  dilatory  soldiers.  Slack 
ing  his  pace,  he  ordered  the  detachment  to  halt,  and  the  ser 
geant  in  command,  impressed  by  his  authoritative  manner 
and  his  uniform,  reiterated  the  order.  Hastily  informing  the 
sergeant  that  a  party  of  volunteers  had  been  maltreated  in  a 
beer  saloon  in  the  vicinity,  the  stranger  took  command  of 


—  8i  — 

the  detachment  himself  and  marched  them  to  the  place  wf 
his  recent  conflict.  The  door  was  found  open  and  the  room 
was  filled  with  people  drinking  beer  and  discussing  vocifer 
ously  the  apparition  before  which  they  had  given  way  a  few 
moments  previously.  Wheeling  his  column  into  line,  the 
self-appointed  commander  gave  the  order  to  charge. 

An  indescribable  tumult  ensued.  The  affrighted  occupants 
of  the  saloon,  seeing  their  redoubtable  adversary  approaching 
with  reinforcements,  had  no  time  to  rally  for  resistance,  but 
fled  incontinently,  making  their  exits  promiscuously  through 
the  rear  windows  of  the  hall  and  scaling  the  fences  of  the 
back  yard  with  eager  haste.  Finding  himself  again  the  mas 
ter  of  the  situation,  the  stranger  discreetly  marched  his 
command  from  the  scene  of  the  double  victory,  and  when 
he  had  gone  a  few  blocks  from  the  place  he  relinquished  the 
command  again  to  the  sergeant  and  disappeared  in  the  dark 
ness.  The  idea  gradually  penetrated  the  mind  of  the  ser 
geant  that  he  had  been  imposed  upon.  Accordingly  the  next 
morning  on  General  Brown's  arrival  at  the  New  York 
office  the  disgusted  non-commissioned  officer  reported  the  oc 
currence,  and  mighty  was  the  General's  wrath  at  hearing 
the  rueful  story.  The  appearance  of  an  intoxicated  officer 
was  not  a  phenomenal  thing  in  those  days,  but  that  anyone 
should  have  the  audacity  to  take  possession  of  his  pet  patrol 
and  use  it  for  the  subjugation  of  a  lager  beer  saloon  was  an 
indignity  not  to  be  ignored.  Detectives  were  employed  to 
ferret  out  the  mysterious  brawler,  and  on  the  following  day 
they  arrested  him  in  his  room  in  the  St.  Nicholas  hotel  and 
carried  him  triumphantly  to  the  general.  The  latter  wasted 
no  words  over  him  but  sent  him  at  once  under  guard  to 
Fort  Hamilton,  as  I  have  related.  On  the  following  morning 
he  was  brought  before  the  general  at  headquarters  immedi 
ately  after  guard  mounting,  when  he  declared  himself  to  be 
long  to  the  staff  of  General  Doster,  then  provost  marshal 
of  the  District  of  Columbia,  recreating  himself  in  New  York 


—  82  — 

on  a  brief  leave  of  absence.  He  was  remanded  to  his  case 
mate  and  a  communication  was  despatched  to  General  Dos- 
ter  inquiring  as  to  the  truth  of  the  story. 

The  two  worthies  bore  their  confinement  with  praise 
worthy  good  nature.  Their  meals  were  furnished  them  from 
the  bachelor  officers'  mess,  which  at  that  time  was  conducted 
in  handsome  style  under  the  stewardship  of  one  of  the  Flou- 
quets  of  the  famous  Plattsburg  family  of  caterers,  who  had 
been  enticed  from  the  shores  of  Lake  Champlain  for  that 
special  purpose,  and  both  were  permitted  to  receive  visitors 
during  the  day  time.  Finally  a  steamer  was  despatched  to 
some  Southern  port  from  which  Judson  could  receive  trans 
portation  to  his  regiment,  and  I  never  saw  him  again.  Rum 
ors,  however,  reached  us  of  his  having  distinguished  himself 
by  gallant  conduct  shortly  after  his  liberation.  A  Federal 
command  somewhere  in  the  interior  stood  in  need  of  sup 
plies,  but  the  master  of  the  vessel  transporting  them  was  re 
luctant  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  rebel  troops  occupying  the 
banks  of  the  river,  by  which  alone  the  command  could  be 
reached.  Pilots  were  not  obtainable,  as  the  shores  were 
known  to  teem  with  confederate  sharpshooters.  In  the 
emergency  Judson  stepped  nobly  to  the  front  and  volun 
teered  to  pilot  the  steamer.  Bullets  rattled  along  unceas 
ingly  against  the  iron  clad  pilot  house  which  he  occupied 
during  the  trip  up  the  river,  but  happily  none  of  them  were 
billeted  for  Judson,  who  stood  calm  and  unflinching  at  the 
wheel  until  he  had  conveyed  his  charge  to  his  destination. 
For  this  gallant  act,  the  story  ran,  he  was  publicly  thanked 
in  general  orders  besides  receiving  more  substantial  reward 
in  the  shape  of  promotion. 

Meanwhile  my  German  captive  remained  in  durance  vile, 
nearly  a  fortnight  elapsing  before  the  receipt  of  General 
Poster's  response  to  General  Brown's  letter.  The  answer 
fully  corroborated  the  prisoner's  statements  in  regard  to  him 
self.  He  proved  to  be  a  subaltern  officer  of  the  Prussian 


-83- 

cavalry,  a  baron  by  title,  and  the  son  of  one  of  the  most 
prominent  officials  of  the  Prussian  government.  He  had  re 
ceived  leave  of  absence  to  enable  him  to  visit  the  United 
States  and  attach  himself  to  our  service  in  order  to  gain  a 
practical  familiarity  with  grand  tactics,  and  the  New  York 
episode  which  I  have  related  was  possibly  a  private  rehearsal 
of  some  tactical  principle  he  had  picked  up  during  a  resi 
dence  of  several  months  in  the  national  capital.  Of  course, 
he  was  immediately  restored  to  liberty,  with  a  spicy  repri 
mand  from  General  Brown,  who  had  him  kept  under  sur 
veillance  until  he  had  departed  in  the  cars  for  Philadelphia. 
Some  months  afterward  I  encountered  him  at  the  St.  Nicho 
las  hotel,  in  New  York,  and  found  him  a  very  sociable  com 
panion.  I  understood  that  he  returned  to  his  own  country 
early  in  1864.  I  have  thought  it  best  not  to  reveal  his 
identity,  foreign  though  he  was,  inasmuch  as  an  official  rep 
resenting  his  government  and  bearing  his  name  and  title,  has 
figured  somewhat  largely  and  creditably  in  the  higher  dip 
lomatic  circles  in  Washington  during  the  past  few  years — 
and  I  have  a  serious  suspicion  that  he  is  the  same  person 
who  as  an  unknown  lieutenant  nearly  twenty-four  years 
ago  was  the  reluctant  recipient  of  the  enforced  hospitalities 
of  Fort  Hamilton  and  the  fellow  prisoner  of  Ned  Buntline. 


CHAPTER^  SEVEN 

J 

WITH  "SCOUTS  OF  THE  PLAINS^ 
AND  AT  HOME 

THE  HILLS  OF  DELAWARE 

Once  more,  dear  hills  of  Delaware, 

I  look  upon  your  leafy  pines — 
Once  more  upon  your  mossy  slopes 

My  wearied  form  at  ease  reclines, 
And  up  into  the  pictured  clouds 

I  gaze  with  glad  contented  eyes, 
And  feel  myself  in  bliss  at  home, 

Beneath  my  boyhood's  native  skies. 

I've  stood  on  fair  Nevada's  peaks, 

And  thought  the  picture  grand  and  fair — 
I've  sighed  in  bright  Yosemite, 

And  thought  'twas  almost  Heaven  there; 
I've  wandered  far  in  every  clime, 

And  met  with  beauties  strange  and  rare, 
But  ever  still  my  heart  looked  back 

To  these — the  hills  of  Delaware! 

No  matter  where  my  footsteps  tread 

By  fortune's  wayward  changes  led — 
No  matter  how  those  fortunes  shine, 

Or  where  I  rest  my  weary  head — 
In  dreams  by  night,  in  thoughts  by  day, 

Before  me  pictured   everywhere, 
I  see  my  home,  and  those  I  love, 

Upon  the  hills  of  Delaware. 

— Ned  Buntline. 


-85- 

T  the  close  of  the  late  Civil  War,  Colonel 
Judson  retired  from  military  service,  cov 
ered  with  wounds  and  broken  in  health,  but 
retaining  his  indomitable  will  and  courage 
— the  resistless  force  that  had  carried  him 
through  perils  and  adventures  bordering  upon  the 
marvellous.  That  he  survived  the  numerous  wounds 
from  bullet  and  shell  and  sabre,  inflicted  during  his 
military  career  and  desperate  encounters  with  In 
dians,  outlaws,  etc.,  is  evidence  of  a  wonderful  vi 
tality. 

With  a  few  congenial  spirits — notably  "Buffalo 
Bill"  (William  F.  Cody),  uWild  Bill"  (James  B. 
Hickox),  'Texas  Jack"  (J.  B.  Omohundro)  and 
Captain  Jack  Crawford — all  well-known  scouts  and 
frontiersmen,  Ned  Buntline  rambled  over  the  West 
ern  plains,  where  he  reveled  in  hunting  and  Indian 
fighting,  while  gathering  abundant  material  for  the 
thrilling  romances  of  the  border  with  which  his 
name  and  fame  have  been  since  so  closely  identified. 
His  coolness  and  courage,  no  less  than  his  remark 
able  skill  as  a  crack  shot  with  the  rifle  and  pistol, 
made  him  an  acknowledged  leader  among  the  wild 
bordermen  of  the  West,  and  if  the  record  of  his  life 
on  the  plains  could  be  carefully  gathered,  it  would 
form  a  bright  chapter  in  his  life  history.  Without 
seeking  for  fame  in  this  direction,  he  was  ever  one 
of  the  boldest  defenders  of  the  defenseless,  and 
often  an  avenger  of  the  cruel  wrongs  perpetrated  by 
the  lawless  Indian  tribes. 


—  86  — 

«  In  public  or  private  life  Ned  Buntline  was  not 
the  wild  man  of  the  woods  he  was  often  supposed 
to  be.  He  was  a  man  of  culture  and  dignity,  an 
eloquent  orator  and  clever  conversationalist — "the 
center  of  magnetic  attraction"  in  an  assemblage,  and 
few  would  surmise  from  his  appearance  that  he  was 
the  hero  of  a  hundred  battles.  In  1867  and  1868 
he  made  a  regular  tour  in  California  and  along  the 
Pacific  coast,  in  the  temperance  work,  and  gained 
the  reputation  of  a  vigorous  and  effective  advocate. 
He  also  appeared  frequently  as  a  lecturer,  in  inci 
dents  and  scenes  of  the  war,  but  his  great  theme,  a? 
a  friend  once  remarked,  was  radical  Americanism, 
and  from  first  to  last  he  believed  and  practiced  in 
the  principle  that  Americans  should  rule  America. 

An  amusing  episode  occurred  in  connection  with 
his  brief  yet  sensational  career  as  playwright  and 
actor.  He  had  prepared  a  Western  drama,  entitled, 
"The  Scouts  of  the  Plains,"  adapted  to  the  histrionic 
abilities  of  the  bold  scouts  Buffalo  Bill  and  Texas 
Jack,  who  agreed  to  meet  him  in  Chicago,  where 
they  were  to  make  their  first  appearance  on  any 
stage — aside  from  the  stage-coach  of  the  far  West. 
Ned  Buntline  thus  relates  his  experience  in  introduc 
ing  Buffalo  Bill  to  the  public  as  one  of  the  hunters 
of  the  wild  west: 

"I  shall  never  forget  the  time  I  had  putting  him 
on  his  feet  as  a  showman  twelve  or  fourteen  years 
ago.  We  had  corresponded  and  I  had  agreed  to 
run  the  show.  We  were  to  meet  in  Chicago.  I  got 


-87- 

there  Thursday  morning,  and  Buffalo  Bill  and  Texas 
Jack  arrived  in  the  evening.  They  were  to  bring 
twenty  Indian  bucks  for  the  show.  Judge  of  my 
consternation  when  they  came  without  an  Indian. 
What  were  we  to  do?  The  biggest  theater  in  Chi 
cago  was  hired  for  the  next  Monday  night  at  a 
heavy  cost.  We  had  no  Indians,  and  it  was  to  be 
an  Indian  show.  'We  must  now  have  a  play,'  I 
said.  I  went  out  and  hired  ten  actors  who  were 
waiting  around  for  something  to  do,  and  set  Bill 
and  Jack  to  making  Indians  of  them.  Then  I  went 
to  writing  a  play.  It  was  a  blood-curdling  and  gory 
tragedy  of  the  plains.  Buffalo  Bill  was  made  the 
hero,  but  I  was  cast  in  a  part  where  there  was  more 
talking  to  do,  lest  he  might  not  be  up  to  it.  I  wrote 
the  play  as  rapidly  as  possible,  handing  the  sheets  to 
copyers  as  fast  as  finished,  so  that  all  could  have 
their  parts.  We  had  three  rehearsals — one  on  Fri 
day  and  two  on  Saturday.  My  own  part  was  not 
written  at  all;  I  merely  had  a  cue  at  the  end,  and 
led  up  to  it  with  any  sort  of  talk  I  pleased.  The 
eventful  evening  came.  The  curtain  rose  on  an  audi 
ence  of  perhaps  three  thousand.  I  had  a  rambling 
soliloquy  about  frontier  life  and  my  old  pards  Buf 
falo  Bill  and  Texas  Jack,  when,  at  the  cue,  in  they 
stalked.  The  audience  rose  and  howled  a  welcome 
to  them.  The  cheer  was  prolonged  and  embarrass 
ing.  At  last  it  subsided  and  the  time  came  for  Buf 
falo  Bill  to  speak.  He  had  forgotten  his  part  and 
stood  like  a  statue.  The  prompter  gave  him  the 


—  88  — 

words.  I  told  him  to  say  something — anything. 
He  was  speechless!  I  said:  'Why,  you've  been  off 
buffalo-hunting  with  Milligan,  haven't  you?'  That 
woke  up  him.  He  looked  at  Milligan  and  his 
friends  in  a  box,  and  told  in  plain  language  the  story 
of  his  last  buffalo  hunt.  Then  we  all  got  warmed 
up,  and  the  'Scouts  of  the  Plains'  went  off  in  a  lively 
manner.  It  was  a  highly  successful  show,  financially, 
and  has  introduced  many  other  similar  wild  west 
combinations,  which  the  public  seem  to  appreciate 
judging  from  the  vast  assemblages  drawn  together 
to  see  the  same. 

Later  another  western  scout,  James  B.  Hickox 
("Wild  Bill")  was  added  to  Ned  Buntline's  unique 
company,  and  this  dauntless  man — the  bravest  of  the 
brave,  as  proven  in  many  deadly  fights  to  maintain 
law  and  order — was  a  bright  star  in  the  little  galaxy. 
While  holding  the  position  of  sheriff  or  marshal  at 
Hays  City,  and  afterward  at  Abilene,  Kansas,  "Wild 
Bill"  maintained  the  reputation  for  cool  courage 
which  he  had  shown  in  earlier  years,  through  meet 
ing,  single-handed,  and  killing  or  desperately  wound 
ing  all  the  members  of  the  notorious  McCandless 
gang  of  desperadoes.  Wild  Bill,  however,  was 
never  given  to  seeking  notoriety,  and  it  was  with 
difficulty  that  he  had  been  induced  to  remain  for 
even  a  short  time  with  the  traveling  company.  He 
had  always  been  a  real  actor  in  life's  wild  drama, 
and  the  presentation  of  this  on  the  stage  did  not  ap 
peal  to  him,  therefore  it  is  not  surprising  that  the 


-89- 

call  of  the  wild  had  been  an  irresistible  one  to  him. 
Of  all  the  American  frontiersmen — not  even  except 
ing  Kit  Carson — it  is  believed  that  Wild  Bill  met 
with  a  greater  number  of  deadly  encounters  against 
apparently  hopeless  odds  than  any  other  in  history. 
His  murder  was  a  most  cowardly  act,  and  thousands 
of  friends  and  admirers  of  the  brave  scout  mourned 
the  loss  of  a  man  who  had  often  been  tried  and  never 
found  wanting;  a  man  sometimes  misjudged,  but  one 
whose  kindness  of  heart  was  known  to  those  most 
intimately  acquainted  with  him.  No  other  westerner 
of  recent  years  can  be  named  to  bear  comparison  as 
a  daring  frontier  sheriff,  a  perfect  marksman  and 
ever  reliable  maintainer  of  law  against  all  odds,  with 
the  possible  exception  of  the  late  Seth  Bullock, 
friend  and  companion  of  Theodore  Roosevelt. 

The  following  tribute  to  Wild  Bill  appeared  not 
long  after  his  death,  in  the  New  York  Clipper: 

UNDER  THE  SOD 

BURIAL  OF  WILD  BILL 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  NEW  YORK  CLIPPER   (jAN.   13,   1877) 

AND  DEDICATED  TO  CHARLEY  UTTER   (COLORADO 

CHARLEY),  BY  CAPT.  JACK 

[Capt.  J.  W.  Crawford,  otherwise  "Capt.  Jack,"  is  also 
known  west  of  the  Missouri  as  the  Poet-scout  of  the  Black 
Hills,  and  last  winter  his  extempore  songs  and  poetic  de 
clamations  were  the  life  of  the  mining-camps  in  that  sec 
tion.  As  guide  to  an  expedition  in  search  of  gold,  he  was 
one  of  the  first  to  explore  the  Black  Hills  country,  and 
credited  to  him  are  some  of  the  quickest  and  most  daring 


rides  on  record.  Last  August,  in  response  to  a  telegram 
from  Buffalo  Bill  (W.  F.  Cody),  he  started  on  horseback, 
and  alone,  to  join  General  Crook,  whose  command  he  found 
in  five  days,  after  a  ride  of  five  hundred  miles  through  the 
Big  Horn  country.  On  another  occasion  he  carried  dis 
patches  for  a  leading  New  York  newspaper  from  Owl  Creek 
to  Fort  Laramie,  a  distance  of  over  four  hundred  miles,  in 
side  of  four  days,  beating  five  fresh  couriers  and  getting  in 
five  hours  ahead  of  all  others.  The  dispatch  cost  $250,  and 
a  supplementary  dispatch  descriptive  of  Capt.  Jack's  remark 
able  ride  cost  $150  more,  which,  with  $500  paid  Capt.  Jack 
for  his  services  as  courier,  made  The  Herald's  outlay  $900. 
These  costly  dispatches  appeared  in  that  paper  on  Sept.  17, 
1876,  the  day  on  which  Capt.  Jack  wrote  the  poem  given 
below,  which  now  appears  in  print  for  the  first  time.  After 
Buffalo  Bill  left  General  Merritt's  cavalry  on  the  Yellow 
stone  River,  Capt.  Jack  was  appointed  chief  of  scouts  with 
that  command.  At  present  he  is  a  character-actor  with  Buf 
falo  Bill's  traveling  company.  Verses  from  his  pen  have 
from  time  to  time  appeared  in  these  columns;  and  accom 
panying  his  present  contribution  is  a  personal  narration  that 
could  not  possibly  be  couched  in  more  expressive  language 
than  the  simple  words  he  himself  has  chosen:  "A  word  or 
two  of  my  former  history.  I  am  twenty-eight  years  of  age, 
stand  five  feet  eleven  inches  high,  and  weigh  178  pounds.  I 
entered  the  army  in  1863,  and  at  that  time  could  not  write 
my  own  name.  I  scouted  for  General  Hartranft,  and  was 
wounded  at  Spottsylvania,  Va.,  May  12,  1864.  While  in 
the  Saterlee  Hospital,  Philadelphia,  one  of  the  Sisters  of 
Charity  taught  me  to  read  and  to  write  (and  may  she  be  an 
angel  for  it!).  After  five  months  spent  in  the  hospital,  I 
returned  to  the  field  and  was  again  wounded,  this  time  at 
Petersburg,  Va.,  April  2,  1865,  after  which  I  was  discharged. 
Since  then  I  have  led  a  wandering  life,  mostly  on  the  plains. 
I  have  written  many  poems  after  the  style  of  Bret  Harte. 


—  91  — 

Gen.  Ouster's  death  was  first  put  into  rhyme  by  me."  James 
B.  Hickox  ("Wild  Bill"),  who  was  killed  at  Deadwood, 
Wy.  Ten,  on  Aug.  2  last,  was,  we  believe,  the  husband  of 
Mrs.  Agnes  Lake,  widow  of  the  widely-known  circus  man 
ager  William  Lake,  who  was  murdered  at  Granby,  Mo., 
Aug.  21,  1869,  by  a  man  whom  he  had  ejected  from  his  show 
for  attempting  to  see  it  without  paying.  The  murderer  of 
"Wild  Bill"  was  last  week  sentenced  to  be  hanged  next 
March.— Ed.  Clipper.] 

Under  the  sod  in  the  prairie-land 

We  have  laid  him  down  to  rest, 
With  many  a  tear  from  the  sad,  rough  throng 

And  the  friends  he  loved  the  best; 
And  many  a  heartfelt  sigh  was  heard 

As  over  the  sward  we  trod, 
And  many  an  eye  was  filled  with  tears 

As  we  covered  him  with  the  sod. 

Under  the  sod  in  the  prairie-land 

We  have  laid  the  good  and  true  — 
An  honest  heart  and  a  noble  scout 

Has  bade  us  a  last  adieu. 
No  more  his  silvery  voice  will  ring. 

His  spirit  has  gone  to  God; 
Around  his  faults  let  Charity  cling, 

While  we  cover  him  with  the  sod. 

Under  the  sod  in  the  land  of  gold 

We  have  laid  the  fearless  Bill; 
We  called  him  Wild,  yet  a  little  child 

Could  bend  his  iron  will. 
With  generous  heart  he  freely  gave 

To  the  poorly  clad,  unshod — 
Think  of  it,  pards — of  his  noble  traits — 

While  you  cover  him  with  the  sod. 


—  92 


Under  the  sod  in  Deadwood  Gulch 

You  have  laid  his  last  remains; 
No  more  his  manly  form  will  hail 

The  red-man  on  the  plains. 
And  Charley,  may  Heaven  bless  you! 

You  gave  him  a  "bully  good  send ;" 
Bill  was  a  friend  to  you,  pard, 

And  you  were  his  last,  best  friend. 

You  buried  him  'neath  the  old  pine-tree, 

In  that  little  world  of  ours, 
His  trusty  rifle  by  his  side — 

His  grave  all  strewn  with  flowers; 
His  manly  form  in  sweet  repose, 

That  lovely  silken  hair — 
I  tell  you,  pard,  it  was  a  sight 

That  face  so  white  and  fair! 

And  while  he  sleeps  beneath  the  sod 

His  murderer  goes  free, 
Released  by  a  perjured,  gaming  set 

Who'd  murder  you  and  me — 
Whose  coward  hearts  dare  never  meet 

A  brave  man  on  the  square. 
Well,  pard,  they'll  find  a  warmer  clime 

Than  they  ever  found  out  there. 

Hell  is  full  of  just  such  men ; 

And  if  Bill  is  above  to-day 
The  Almighty  will  have  enough  to  do 

To  keep  him  from  going  away — 
That  is,  from  making  a  little  scout 

To  the  murderer's  home  below; 
And  if  old  Peter  will  let  him  out, 

He  can  clean  out  the  ranch,  I  know. 


-93- 

About  1870  Ned  Buntline  returned  to  Delaware 
county,  New  York,  and  erected  near  Stamford,  the 
place  of  his  birth,  a  handsome  residence  which  he 
christened  the  "Eagle's  Nest,"  in  remembrance  of 
his  hermitage  of  the  same  name  in  the  Adirondack 
wilderness.  His  home  in  the  highlands  of  the  Hud 
son  was  erected  upon  a  picturesque  hill-side,  over 
looking  many  miles  of  the  lovely  Delaware  valley, 
and  successive  ridges  of  the  Catskill  range.  The 
residence  was  built  and  furnished  at  an  expense  of 
nearly  $25,000,  and  all  the  surroundings  indicated 
the  culture  and  sporting  proclivities  of  the  owner. 
A  tract  of  twenty  acres  close  at  hand  was  kept  as  a 
game  preserve,  and  his  favorite  room,  the  armory  or 
curiosity  shop,  as  he  was  wont  to  call  it,  contained  a 
rare  collection  of  guns,  pistols,  sabres  and  other  im 
plements  of  warfare  and  the  chase.  His  library 
sanctum,  as  he  remarked,  were  one,  and  in  this  cosy 
retreat  his  prolific  pen  produced  the  numerous  thrill 
ing  tales  which  brought  him  wider  fame  and  fortune. 
He  was  at  this  period  under  contract  to  contribute 
exclusively  to  the  columns  of  the  New  York  Weekly, 
and  it  has  been  stated  that  he  received  from  the  pro 
prietors,  Messrs.  Street  &  Smith,  the  handsome  sum 
of  $20,000  per  year  for  his  productions.  Through 
his  thrilling  and  sensational  tales — many  of  them 
possessing  the  merit  almost  of  historical  novels  of 
the  frontier — "Buffalo  Bill"  first  attained  public 
fame,  and  his  success  in  later  years  may  be  in  a  great 
measure  traced  to  this  origin,  as  he  was  thereby 


—  94  — 

made  the  ideal  representation  of  a  border  scout  in 
the  opinion  of  Young  America,  and  he  possessed, 
fotunately,  the  sterling  qualities  that  confirmed  this 
impression  in  his  public  career — a  genuine  triumphal 
tour  at  home  and  abroad. 

Under  Ned  Buntline's  supervision  the  mountain 
streams  of  Delaware  county  were  liberally  stocked 
with  brook  trout,  and  he  enjoyed  the  fishing  each 
season,  with  a  few  intimate  friends  who  were  ardent 
lovers  of  the  Waltonian  art.  In  a  letter  to  the 
writer  of  this,  several  years  ago,  the  keen  old  sports 
man  gave  the  following  graphic  description  of  the 
last  day's  sport  of  the  season: 

It  has  been  my  habit  for  years,  when  no  serious  hindrance 
intervened,  to  spend  the  last  day  of  the  trout  season  over 
on  the  crystal  Beaverkill,  and  the  last  day  of  August  found 
me  at  the  famous  Tripp  cottage,  with  my  cherished  Orvis 
rod,  a  book  of  Orvis  flies  and  a  big  box  of  genuine  grass 
hoppers,  ready  to  see  the  season  out. 

The  stream  was  very  low,  consequently  rather  warm  and 
the  fishing  poor  except  where  cold  springs  entered  the  main 
stream.  There  it  was  superb,  and  knowing  the  stream  as 
I  do  from  ten  years  of  experience  I  skipped  all  places  but 
these  very  spring-holes,  and  the  consequence  was  that  I  came 
in  with  a  twenty-pound  basket  full  of  speckled  beauties, 
mostly  of  fine  size. 

Approaching  the  stream  cautiously  on  the  Charley  Water's 
clearing,  sheltered  from  view  by  a  clump  of  willows,  I  looked 
over  to  the  mouth  of  a  cold  spring  brook  running  from  Rob 
ert  Seal's  farm.  In  a  shallow  pool  where  the  ice-cold  water 
from  the  spring  ran  in  I  counted  ten  trout  that  would  aver 
age  from  ten  to  twelve  inches  long  and  in  weight  strike  a 
half  pound  apiece.  There  they  lay,  their  dorsal  fins  quiv- 


ering  with  pleasure,  in  the  cool  shade,  unconscious  of  dan 
ger.  I  changed  a  much  worn  leader  for  a  fresh  one,  took  a 
single  black  gnat  from  my  book,  shortened  my  line  for  a 
clean  lift  out,  and  then,  all  unseen  through  the  leafy  screen, 
lightly  dropped  an  invitation  to  the  lowest  trout  in  the  pool. 
The  fly  hardly  touched  water  ere  it  was  sprung  for,  taken, 
and  Mr.  Salmo  Fontinalis  literally  lifted  out  by  the  tough 
bamboo,  without  noise  or  trouble  enough  to  startle  the  rest 
of  the  little  "school."  Number  one  deftly  secured  and  bas 
keted,  I  tried  the  same  game  with  numbers  two,  three  and 
four  successfully.  But  the  fifth  was  a  little  more  gamey,  or 
else  success  had  made  me  careless;  and,  only  half-hooked,  he 
tore  away  and  made  the  water  fly  with  his  wild  antics,  start 
ling  his  brethren  into  other  waters  and  shutting  off  my  rash 
intention  of  "cleaning  out"  the  pool. 

You  cannot,  with  every  six-ounce  bamboo  rod,  lift  out 
a  half  pound  trout;  in  fact,  I  never  had  one  before  that  was 
pliant  enough  for  a  seventy-foot  cast,  that  would  bear  such  a 
strain ;  but  I  believe  I  have  as  good  a  rod  as  ever  fell  to  an 
angler's  lot.  With  the  tip  touching  the  reel  plate,  I  have 
proved  it,  holding  a  three-pounder  in  a  swift  current,  away 
from  roots  and  snags,  till  I  tired  and  drowned  him  out. 

To  me  there  are  two  glorious  times  in  the  trout  season. 
The  first  is  in  the  early  Spring,  when  the  streams  are  full 
and  rapid,  when  the  trout  seem  wild  and  fresh  from  a  long 
Winter's  rest,  and  like  nature  herself,  full  of  beauty, 
strength  and  vim! 

The  second  is  the  last  of  the  season,  when  the  largest 
trout  emerge  from  their  hiding  places  under  dark  ledges, 
mossy  banks  and  deep,  well  sheltered  pools,  to  seek  the  sandy 
spawning  beds  far  up  the  stream,  where  they  can  carry  out 
the  procreative  laws  which  prevent  our  brooks,  lakes  and 
rivers  from  utter  depletion,  fished  as  they  are,  literally  "to 
death."  But  friend  Wildwood,  I  fear  I  am  spinning  too 
long  a  yarn  for  the  limited  space  accorded  in  your  journal  to 
piscatorial  lore. 


-96- 

Ere  I  close  let  me  join  the  general  "boom"  in  congratula 
tions  that  you  have  come  Eastward  for  light,  found  it,  and 
are  content  to  give  your  facile  pen  play  in  a  field  which  I 
trust  will  add  both  to  your  fame  and  fortune. 

In  another  communication,  at  a  later  date,  Ned 
Buntline  alluded  to  the  wild  sports  of  the  wilderness 
in  northern  New  York,  and  closed  with  a  humorous 
description  of  the  last  bear  of  the  Western  Catskill 
range,  thus: 

LAST  BEAR  IN  THE  CATSKILL  MOUNTAINS 

Until  within  a  very  few  years,  bears  have  been  often  seen 
in  the  Catskill  Mountains  near  the  two  heads  of  the  Dela 
ware  River,  every  Fall,  when  berries  were  ripe,  and  corn  in 
the  milk.  And  occasionally  they  lost  their  pelts,  for  we 
have  some  hunters  of  the  old  stock  left. 

But  they  are  rare  visitors  now.  About  Thanksgiving  we 
had  a  light  fall  of  snow,  barely  enough  to  make  an  excuse  to 
start  sleighs  to  running. 

One  crisp  morning  about  that  time,  young  Will  Papino, 
living  two  miles  east  of  Stamford,  and  directly  under  the 
steepest  part  of  Old  Bear  Mountain,  now  misnamed  Utsay- 
anto,  came  tearing  into  town  to  tell  the  sportsmen  that  a 
huge  black  bear  was  playing  and  tumbling  about  in  the  snow 
near  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  just  above  his  father's  house. 

Jerusalem !  Such  a  hurry  and  a  scurry  you  never  saw 
among  the  shooters  of  the  town.  I  had  the  sciatica  and 
could  not  go,  so  Dell  Warner,  one  of  our  best  shots,  got  my 
45-calibre  Sharps  rifle  and  jumped  into  his  cutter  with  Billy 
Ives  for  driver.  Billy  carried  a  tremendous  old  Queen  Anne, 
with  24  No.  1  buckshot  to  the  load. 

Erskine  Seeley,  a  keen  sportsman  and  the  owner  of  the 
best  dog  in  the  county,  doubled  in  with  Aruna  Maynard, 


—  97  — 

and  a  Mr.  Green  mated  with  Harvey  Wood,  another  of  our 
noted  shots,  and  away  they  started  after  Bruin. 

There  was  not  much  time  lost  getting  there,  and  sure 
enough  when  the  party  got  to  Papino's  up  the  hill  nearly 
half  a  mile,  near  an  old  hay  barn,  the  monster  was  seen. 

The  shotgun  men  were  not  quite  so  anxious  to  close 
up  when  they  saw  the  huge  black  beast  slowly  walking  about 
near  the  edge  of  the  woods;  it  was  debated  whether  shot 
guns  were  just  the  thing  for  bear  hunting.  This  gave  Dell 
Warner  the  start.  He  shouldered  the  Sharp,  and,  backed 
by  the  valiant  Ives,  started  up  the  hill. 

He  got  within  about  four  hundred  yards,  set  his  sight 
for  the  distance,  and  as  the  bear  had  stopped  playing  and 
seemed  to  watch  the  party,  knelt  down,  took  deliberate  aim, 
and,  to  use  his  own  classic  language,  "let  sliver!" 

The  bullet  struck  the  snow  just  under  Bruin's  nose,  and 
must  have  knocked  his  eyes  full,  for  he  wheeled  around  and 
around  as  if  pretty  mad. 

Without  rising,  Warner  coolly  put  in  another  .45-100 
cartridge,  and  allowing  for  windage,  let  drive  again.  This 
time  Bruin  got  it  hot,  and  as  all  the  sportsmen  were  on  the 
run  up  the  hill  to  join  Warner,  yelling  at  every  jump,  the 
bear  limped  off  toward  the  woods,  turning  once  in  a  while  as 
if  it  thought  of  fighting  it  out  instead  of  retreating. 

"Don't  let  him  get  away,  Dell!"  shouted  Seeley. 

"No,  for  goodness'  sake,  no!"  cried  Maynard. 

"Not  if  Ned's  rifle  is  worth  a  snap!"  said  Dell,  and  he  got 
a  rest  over  the  shoulder  of  Billy  Ives,  and  as  the  bear 
mounted  a  shelving  rock  he  fired  his  last  and  fatal  shot. 

The  bear  rolled  over  and  over  down  the  rock,  and  when 
it  reached  the  bottom  it  was  still. 

Just  then  an  old  settler,  Carlos  Van  Housen,  who  was 
wood  chopping  on  the  mountain,  came  tearing  down  through 
the  woods  with  his  ax  on  his  shoulder  and  fire  in  his  eye. 


98 


He  got  to  the  bear  just  as  Warner  and  the  rest  came  up,  and 
his  voice  could  have  been  heard  a  mile  when  he  yelled : 

"What  in  shoel  have  you  been  shooting  my  Newfound 
land  dog  for?" 

Dell  stood  like  one  suddenly  struck  with  lightning.  He 
looked  sadly  down  at  his  prize  and  asked  the  old  settler  if  its 
life  was  insured — if  it  was  not,  he  would  pay  for  it. 

And  that  is  the  last  bear  seen  in  our  range. 


CHAPTER^  EIGHT 

LATER  YEARS - 
PERSONAL  REMINISCENCES 


N  1871  Colonel  Judson  married  an  attrac 
tive  and  amiable  young  lady,  Miss  Anna 
Fuller,  of  Stamford,  and  the  picturesque 
mountain  eyrie,  the  Eagle's  Nest,  was  trans 
formed  from  a  hermitage  to  a  happy  home. 
The  novelist  was,  if  possible,  more  active  than  ever 
before  in  his  literary  labors,  and  under  various  sig 
natures  supplied  a  vast  amount  of  highly  sensational 
fiction  to  the  publications  of  Messrs.  Street  &  Smith. 
His  stirring  tales  of  frontier  life  and  adventure  at 
sea  proved  to  be  not  only  a  mine  of  wealth  for  him 
self,  but  one  of  the  greatest  attractions  of  the  New 
York  Weekly  as  well,  and  the  enterprising  publish 
ers,  as  before  mentioned,  gave  him  a  most  munificent 
salary  to  contribute  exclusively  to  their  periodicals. 
His  love  of  out-door  sports  did  not  diminish  with 
the  burden  of  years,  and  infirmities  wrought  by  shot 
and  shell.  Referring  to  his  home  and  surroundings 
many  years  ago  in  a  letter  to  the  writer  of  these 


—  100  — 

fragmentary  memoirs,  Ned  Buntline  remarked: 
"This  is  not  much  of  a  game  region.  We  have  a 
few  woodcock,  plenty  of  ruffed  grouse,  squirrels  and 
pigeons,  and  brook  trout.  I  usually  go  forty  to  one 
hundred  and  fifty  miles  for  my  trout  and  venison  in 
season.  It  is  a  high,  cold  region  here — settled  long 
ago.  My  ancestors  came  here  immediately  after 
the  Revolution  of  1776.  I  think  I  sent  you  a  pic 
ture  of  Eagle's  Nest.  It  is  beautifully  located,  and 
was  designed  by  myself;  a  conservatory  in  one  wing 
and  a  library  of  the  same  size  forms  the  other  wing. 
My  library  contains  my  books  as  well  as  all  my 
hunting  and  fishing  gear,  with  portraits  of  friends, 
etc.,  etc.  I  have  a  good  library  and  take  my  winter's 
comfort  there.  In  summer  the  woods  and  streams 
are  my  haunts  almost  constantly.  Should  you  come 
East  don't  fail  to  visit  me,  and  I  will  take  you  where 
trout  congregate  and  red  deer  roam  free." 

In  a  subsequent  letter  he  writes :  "Long  con 
tinued  sickness,  killing  all  love  for  the  pen,  must  be 
my  only  excuse  for  not  answering  you  before.  A 
wound  received  in  June,  '63,  the  bullet  still  remain 
ing  under  the  spinal  column  in  a  place  almost  or 
quite  impossible  to  extract,  causes  me  fearful  suf 
fering  from  sciatica.  .  .  .  The  winter  here  has 
been  simply  terrible,  the  thermometer  below  zero 
all  the  time,  snow  on  the  level  three  feet,  and  in 
drifts  twenty  feet  deep  often.  How  do  you  like  the 
picture?  God  helping  me,  'tis  my  last  winter  in 
the  North." 


IOI  — 


The  following  autumn  Ned  Buntline  put  into  ef 
fect  his  proposed  plan  to  go  South  for  the  winter, 
and  with  characteristic  love  of  out-door  life,  made 
the  trip  in  his  easy  carriage,  accompanied  by  his 
wife.  While  en  route  he  was  compelled  to  stop  sev 
eral  days  at  Gettysburg,  Pa.,  and  wrote  as  follows 
from  the  historic  old  battle  ground:  uWe  are  de 
tained  here  by  a  continuous  rain  storm  of  five  days, 
and  I  have  been  able  to  send  for  and  get  the  Turf, 
Field  and  Farm  with  your  kind  biographical  sketch. 
I  find  it  in  the  main  correct,  only  too  flattering  when 
speaking  of  my  talents.  ...  In  consequence  of 
severe  suffering  from  old  wounds,  especially  in  cold 
weather,  I  shall  spend  the  fall  and  winter  in  a  South 
ern  hunting  trip,  driving  my  own  team,  and  follow 
ing  along  the  base  of  the  Alleghenies  and  Blue 
Ridge  through  Southern  Pennsylvania,  Maryland, 
Virginia  and  North  Carolina  into  Georgia.  I  pro 
pose  to  hunt  going  and  fish  the  trout  streams  as  I 
return  toward  Eagle's  Nest  in  the  spring.  I  wish 
you  were  along.  I  expect  a  grand  old  time  among 
the  deer,  bear  and  turkeys." 

It  may  be  interesting  to  know  that  Mrs.  Judson, 
a  keen  devotee  of  angling  and  out-door  recreation, 
enjoyed  the  novelty  and  healthful  character  of  the 
trip  quite  as  fully  as  her  husband,  and  in  favorable 
weather  could  vie  with  him  in  fishing  for  trout  and 
bass.  Upon  arriving  in  the  Old  Dominion,  about 
the  holiday  season,  Colonel  Judson  wrote  as  fol 
lows  from  Warrenton,  Va.,  under  date  of  December 


—  IO2  — 

27:  "Delightful  society,  fair  hunting  for  quail  and 
turkey,  with  fine  weather,  has  kept  me  here  yet. 
Next  week  I  shall  prospect  the  Blue  Ridge  and 
Upper  Rappahannock.  I  have  not  met  any  of  the 
old-time  sportsmen  yet,  but  may  before  I  get 
through  my  trip.  I  got  a  twenty-pound  wild  turkey 
this  morning.  Wish  you  had  him  for  dinner.  No 
news  down  this  way,  only  a  Virginia  Christmas  is 
the  liveliest  fun  you  ever  saw." 

On  a  subsequent  trip  to  the  Sunny  South  the  gal 
lant  old  sportsman  prepared  a  series  of  brief  letters 
for  publication  in  one  of  the  leading  sporting  jour 
nals,  to  which  he  contributed  frequently  as  a  labor 
of  love.  The  following  extracts  are  given  to  illus 
trate  his  keen  delight  in  the  sports  of  the  field.  The 
letters  were  written  from  Warrenton,  Virginia : 

On  the  15th  of  October  our  season  opens  on  grouse,  quail 
and  wild  turkey.  They  are  unusually  plenty — the  game 
laws  and  those  of  trespass  being  very  closely  observed.  Fine 
sport  will  be  had  in  the  fields  I  am  confident,  and  I  will 
keep  you  posted  thereon. 

Fox  hunting,  with  a  noble  pack  of  hounds,  is  indulged  in 
three  times  a  week  by  a  gallant  coterie  of  brave  cavaliers, 
and  many  fair  ladies  join  in  the  dashing  sport. 

Major  Holman,  on  his  famous  leaper  Talisman,  gen 
erally  leads  the  way,  while  Charles  Payne,  the  banker,  a 
nephew  of  our  genial  friend,  "Nicholas  Spicer,"  is  never  far 
behind ;  that  is,  unless  he  is  delayed  to  let  down  a  fence  for 
some  obese  party  who  is  unused  to  taking  five  bars  on  the 
fly,  as  he  often  does. 

Young  James  Maddux  has  a  good  hunter  under  him,  and 
only  gives  in  to  the  gallant  major  in  keeping  up  to  the 
hounds. 


— 103  — 

As  soon  as  I  get  fairly  settled  to  my  work  I  hope  to  give 
you  a  detailed  account  of  some  of  the  "meets"  in  this  vi 
cinity 

I  made  a  big  drive  from  Eagle's  Nest  to  this  place  with 
my  Hambletonia  team — not  Amazonian  horses,  as  the  Wash 
ington  Post  called  them. 

I  drove  710  miles  in  nine  days  and  a  half  in  a  light  buck- 
board  hunting  wagon,  and  brought  my  team  in  good  con 
dition  to  continue  the  journey  had  I  so  desired. 

I  send  you  a  record  of  opening  day,  Oct.  15,  near  this 
place. 

James  K.  Maddux,  of  the  Warren  Green  Hotel,  twenty 
quail  and  one  rabbit;  Major  Holman  and  friend,  nineteen 
birds — the  thirty-nine  birds  being  all  killed  from  one  cover, 
within  a  short  drive  from  the  city.  Mr.  Jeffries,  a  rising 
young  farmer  of  this  place,  killed  five  wild  turkeys,  and 
Dr.  Lacey,  of  New  York,  got  two  more  out  of  the  same 
flock. 

As  these  gentlemen  merely  wished  to  initiate  the  open 
season  they  did  not  seek  to  make  as  large  bags  as  they  could 
have  done. 

There  were  other  sportsmen  out,  but  they  went  beyond  my 
immediate  outlook,  and  I  do  not  yet  know  the  result  of 
their  shooting. 

Gave  is  very  plentiful  here,  for  it  has  been  protected. 

Have  just  received  a  delightful  letter  from  dear  old  "Nick 
Spicer" — Alban  S.  Payne — from  his  mountain  home  in  the 
Blue  Ridge,  thirty  miles  away.  He  met  with  an  accident 
some  time  since,  which  injured  his  true  right  hand  so  he 
could  not  write,  but  he  tells  me  he  will  soon  resume  his 
"spicy"  sketches.  God  grant  him  long  life  and  a  bright  sun 
set  with  his  loved  ones  ever  near  to  cheer  the  descent  to  the 
golden  shore. 

Since  my  last  note  to  you  the  fox  hunting  coterie  have 
made  four  gallant  runs,  killing  two  gray  foxes  and  a  red 


—  IO4  — 

one  and  running  a  fourth  to  earth  after  a  long  and  exciting 
chase. 

The  hunters  have  been  busy  after  birds  and  have  met  with 
fair  success.  "Alic,"  from  Washington,  paid  us  a  visit,  being 
a  guest  at  the  hospitable  home  of  Charlie  Ross.  As  quail, 
turkey  and  grouse  abound  on  Rossmere,  he  lived  gloriously, 
I  am  sure. 

Three  Philadelphia  gentlemen  spent  a  week  in  the  vi 
cinity  very  pleasantly,  making  the  Warren  Green  their  head 
quarters.  Their  hind-quarters,  like  Pope's,  were  in  the 
saddle  every  day,  as  they  rode  out  to  seek  fur  and  feather. 

The  shooting  will  be  far  better  if  we  can  only  get  a  frost 
or  two  to  kill  the  weeds,  which  have  grown  rank  and  thick 
with  so  much  rain. 

The  fox  hunters  will  enjoy  the  crisp  air  also  and  scent 
will  lie  all  the  better  when  the  sun  rises  on  frosted  fields. 
C.  E.  F.  Payne,  the  Master  Huntsman,  is  receiving  many 
letters  from  lovers  of  good  hounds  and  those  who  enjoy  the 
daring  rides  the  hunters  take.  Though  a  very  busy  man  in 
his  bank,  he  rises  before  dawn  and  covers  many  a  mile  of 
copse  and  forest  and  field  before  the  opening  hour  arrives. 

The  letter  from  the  noble  Colonel  of  the  "Old  Guard," 
the  veteran  Skinner,  roused  a  thousand  pleasant  recollec 
tions  in  the  mind  of  "yours  truly."  A  week  ago  last  Friday, 
the  coolest  day  we  have  yet  had  in  Virginia  this  year,  I 
drove  fifty  miles  to  enjoy  a  visit  with  genial,  true-hearted 
"Nick  Spicer,"  Dr.  Alban  S.  Payne.  I  found  him  at  his  de 
lightful  home  near  Markham,  in  the  foot-hills  of  the  Blue 
Ridge,  surrounded  by  his  good  wife  and  well-loved  and 
lovely  daughters,  enjoying  the  comforts  of  a  generous  home, 
but  not  in  as  robust  health  as  when  last  we  met.  The  acci 
dent  I  alluded  to  in  my  last  letter  yet  troubled  him  and  makes 
writing  painful  and  laborious.  Yet  he  says  he  will  soon  re 
sume  his  pen  for  the  sake  of  us  "old-time  men"  who  love  him 
so  well.  The  warmth  of  my  welcome  at  Crystal  Water 


Hall  made  me  forget  the  chill  air  and  the  long  rough  ride, 
while  in  the  presence  of  the  man  who  struck  Billy  Patterson, 
listening  to  the  music  of  his  accomplished  daughters,  I  felt 
it  was  a  sin  to  think  of  growing  old. 

To  Colonel  Skinner,  of  whom  we  talked  so  much  that 
day,  I  would  say:  I  will,  if  health  and  engagements  permit, 
fulfill  his  advice  in  regard  to  the  Daniel  and  Asshely  hunts. 
The  old  Colonel  has  many  very  warm  friends  here  who  al 
ways  ask  after  him  when  we  meet.  Since  frost  came  birds 
are  easier  got  at,  therefore  they  appear  more  plenty. 

Mr.  Charles  Payne,  the  popular  banker,  still  keeps  up 
his  pack  of  hounds,  and  hunts  them  boldly  and  frequently 
and  with  good  success.  Well  mounted,  a  rather  light  weight, 
he  generally  leads  the  field.  Young  Mr.  De  Lancey,  from 
New  York,  is  never  absent  at  the  death ;  he  is  a  very  fine 
rider,  and  has  a  fast  hunter  and  fine  jumper.  James  K. 
Maddux  rides  with  the  boldest,  and  with  the  gun  has  no 
superior,  in  fact  no  equal  in  this  section. 

With  my  gun,  a  Colt  choke  bore,  12  gauge,  7l/2  pounds, 
he  missed  but  one  quail  in  twenty  shots,  in  thick  brush, 
which  is  far  ahead  of  my  best  work  with  the  same  gun. 

I  am  invited  to  a  deer  and  turkey  hunt  on  the  Lower 
Rappahannock  next  week,  and  as  Major  Dowerman  and 
Mr.  Yates  are  to  be  in  the  party,  some  game  will  have  to 
suffer,  "/or  sure." 

With  the  exception  of  one  cold  snap  last  week,  the 
weather  has  been  delightful,  real  nice  weather  for  an  old 
man's  enjoyment. 

Wild  turkey,  quail,  pheasant  and  rabbit  are  found  on 
the  table  of  the  Warren  Green  very  frequently,  and  mine 
host  Maddux  welcomes  his  guests  in  true  "Old  Dominion" 
style. 


The  sporting  sketches  from  Ned  Buntline's  pen 
form  an  attractive  feature  of  his  literary  work.    Al- 


—  io6  — 

though  written  hastily  and  spontaneously,  th>y  are 
filled  with  the  spirit  of  enthusiasm  so  characteristic 
of  the  author.  Leon  Mead,  an  timate  friend  of 
the  novelist,  says  of  his  life  work  as  represented  in 
his  voluminous  writings:  "Ned  Buntline  accom 
plished  more  literary  work  than  Walter  Scott  and 
Dickens  put  together.  In  book  form  his  serial 
stories,  which  he  has  been  almost  incessantly  penning 
for  over  fifty  years,  would  amount  perhaps  to  more 
than  two  hundred  volumes.  It  is  presumable  that 
much  which  he  wrote  he  did  not  very  highly  prize 
for  intrinsic  merit,  just  as  Whittier,  the  poet,  wishes 
that  he  had  never  published  his  first  little  volume  of 
verses.  But  Buntline's  tales  stand  by  themselves  as 
a  distinct  class  of  literature.  They  cannot  be  com 
pared  with  the  so-called  refined  novel,  except  per 
haps  upon  points  of  style.  It  is  certain  that  his 
methods  of  work  were  inspirational,  else  how  could 
he  have  weaved  his  thrilling  plots  as  he  wrote,  with 
out  previous  deliberation.  What  Goethe  says  about 
literary  style  is  essentially  true;  'style  is  the  man 
himself.' 

"His  experience,  both  military  and  secular,  doubt 
less  caused  him  to  continue  in  the  peculiar  field  of 
fiction  which  he  originated  and  in  which  he  was  un 
surpassed.  Upon  one  occasion  when  the  writer  was 
paying  him  a  visit  at  his  elegant  home,  which  he 
called  Eagle's  Nest,  in  the  Catskills,  he  said:  'I 
might  have  paved  for  myself  a  far  different  career 
in  letters,  but  my  early  lot  was  cast  among  rough 


—  ID;  — 

men  on  the  border;  they  became  my  comrades,  and 
when  I  made  my  name  as  a  teller  of  stories  about 
Indians,  pirates  and  scouts,  it  seemed  too  late  to  be 
gin  over  again.  And  besides,  I  made  more  money 
than  any  Bohemian  in  New  York  or  Boston.  I  did 
try  writing  temperance  tracts  once  for  a  religious 
society,  but  they  were  altogether  too  frugal  about 
the  compensation,  and  so  I  turned  over  the  job  to  a 
needy  friend,  and  resumed  the  spinning  of  yarns.* 

"This  illustrates  the  fact  the  Buntline  was  not 
without  business  insight,  and  a  literary  man  in  these 
times  cannot  creep  into  a  shell  of  ideality  without 
coming,  sooner  or  later,  to  want. 

"Colonel  Judson  was  eccentric  in  his  mode  of  life, 
and  his  career  in  itself  was  quite  as  romantic  as  any 
thing  he  ever  penned.  His  exploits  on  the  plains 
developed  in  him  a  reckless  daring  and  the  posses 
sion  of  this  quality  infused  strength  into  the  vivid 
ness  of  his  heroic  characters  as  he  described  them. 
He  seems  never  to  have  been  afraid  of  man  or 
beast,  and  the  many  places  of  imminent  danger  in 
which  he  frequently  found  himself  afforded  him 
chances  to  play  the  coward  had  be  been  one  by  na 


ture." 


w 

CHAPTER^  NINE 

NED  BUNTLINE  AS  AN  ANGLER  AND 
ANGLING  WRITER 

F  all  outdoor  sports,  Ned  Buntline  loved 
best  the  time  honored  art  of  angling,  as  in 
dicated  clearly  in  his  writings.  He  was 
fond  of  the  wilder  sports  of  the  wilderness 
and  the  plains,  but  there  was  a  fascination 
in  angling — especially  in  trout  fishing — that  ap 
pealed  to  him  more  irresistibly  than  any  other  open 
air  recreation.  His  entertaining  contributions  to  the 
sportsmen's  periodicals  would  fill  a  volume  of  ab 
sorbing  interest,  and  it  is  worthy  of  note  that  the 
greater  portion  of  these  sketches,  written  literally 
as  a  labor  of  love,  are  on  the  subject  of  fishing  with 
rod  and  line,  and  the  angling  companions  with  whom 
he  enjoyed  the  sport.  A  few  of  these  pleasing  tales 
of  trouting  and  of  his  fishing  associates  are  given 
to  throw  a  side  light  on  the  man  of  dynamo  energy 
and  action,  whose  chosen  pastime  was  the  quiet,  con 
templative  art  made  classic  by  good  old  Izaak  Wal 
ton: 


FEMALE  AGLERS 

It  must  not  be  arrogated  by  man  that  he  is  sole  lord  of 
the  Piscatorial  Domain.  I  have  a  better-half  who  can  handle 
her  six-ounce  fly-rod  right  skillfully;  who  has  camped  with 
me  on  the  banks  of  more  than  one  bright  trout  stream  and 
gently,  deftly  drawn  her  share  of  the  speckled  beauties  from 
their  native  element  to  the  shore. 

I  remember  well,  some  ten  years  ago,  a  Mrs.  Pollard,  of 
Jersey  City,  who  in  a  neat  bathing  suit  took  the  lead  over 
some  of  our  best  fly-fishermen  wading  in  the  Beaverkill,  and 
who  always  took  at  least  two  to  his  one  when  her  husband 
tried  to  beat  her  in  the  catch.  She  was  graceful,  skillful, 
and,  unlike  too  many  of  the  sterner  sex,  not  a  bit  given  to 
boasting. 

Female  anglers  are  gaining  ground  every  year,  as  any  one 
who  reads  can  see  for  himself.  In  the  salmon  waters  of 
Canada,  England's  fairest  Princess  made  a  grand  name  this 
year  for  her  skill  and  success.  At  this  moment  I  hold  a 
letter  written  to  my  wife  by  one  of  the  fairest  married  belles 
of  Washington,  Mrs.  Mattie  W.,  telling  of  the  joy  she  had 
experienced  with  her  husband,  father,  and  a  select  party  of 
ladies  and  gentlemen  from  the  Old  Dominion,  while  on  a 
fishing  tour  on  the  lovely  Shenandoah. 

"I  caught,"  said  she,  "and  saved,  after  a  tussel  of  an 
hour — more  or  less — a  four-pound  bass.  Oh !  how  he  pulled 
— worse  than  a  mule  speeding  home  at  feeding  time.  But  I 
held  on  even  after  he  had  run  out  all  the  line — one  hundred 
and  fifty  feet — on  my  reel,  and  before  I  was  quite  tired  out, 
I  pulled  him  ashore,  and  sat  right  down  on  him,  I  was  so 
afraid  he'd  take  a  fresh  start  and  get  away  again." 

Just  fancy  that  queenly  form,  which  I  have  watched  in 
many  a  glorious  waltz,  seated  on  a  four-pound  bass  for  a 
throne,  while  she  shouted  in  glee: 

"Harry!    Harry!   run   here — run   fast,   for   I've  got  the 


—  no  — 

King  of  the  Waters   in   the   tightest  pen   he  ever  knew! 
Come  and  help  me  save  him." 

And  well  might  our  fair  friend  rejoice  over  such  a  cap 
ture.  A  few  months  ago  she  and  her  happy  mate  made  their 
bridal  trip  to  the  Eagle's  Nest,  and  I  am  glad  to  know  that 
to  many  other  accomplishments  she  has  added  that  of 
angling.  Healthful,  noble,  and  gentle,  it  will  hurt  no  one 
to  seek  color,  life  and  joy  in  the  wilderness  and  by  the 
side  of  bright  waters.  It  is  "big  medicine,"  as  an  old 
Pawnee  chief  said  to  me,  when  I  pulled  a  fifty  pound  cat 
fish  ashore  for  him  near  Grand  Island  once  on  a  raw-silk 
fly-line,  with  a  trout  reel  and  ten  ounce  rod.  I  used  a  bit 
of  sage  hen  for  a  bait  that  time.  I  thought  it  was  "big 
medicine"  myself  when  he  shoved  about  half  of  it  into  an 
iron  pot  with  some  venison,  bear  fat  and  hardtack  that  he 
had  got  from  the  Post  near  by.  But  I  was  hungry  and 
went  into  the  mess  cheerfully  when  it  was  brought  into  the 
tepee. 

But,  Lord  love  me,  how  I  have  run  on.  What  I  want  to 
see  now  in  the  American  Angler,  is  some  live,  spirited,  true 
sketches  from  some  of  our  Female  Anglers.  There  are 
plenty  of  them — so  come  on,  ladies,  and  blest  be  who  first 
cries,  "Hold,  enough!"  'Twill  ne'er  be  me — bet  your  back 
hair  on  that. 

NED  BUNTLINE. 

Eagles  Nest,  Oct.  31,  1881. 

SETH  GREEN  ON  THE  STREAM 

In  1857,  I  was  fishing  on  the  lower  rapids,  between  Lake 
Utawana  and  Marion  River,  which  carries  the  overflow  of 
the  three  Blue  Mountain  Lakes  toward  Raquette.  It  was 
early — too  early  for  the  fly — but  I  was  there  with  a  tin  box 
full  of  white  grubs,  chopped  out  of  rotten  logs  and  thawed 
into  life  in  the  genial  sun  of  a  frosty  May  morning.  I  got 


SETH   GREEN 
FAMOUS  ANGLER  AND  FISH  CULTURIST 


—  Ill  — 

a  strike  about  once  in  two  or  three  minutes  on  an  average, 
and  seldom  less  than  a  two-pounder  took  the  Limerick.  I 
had  been  in  the  ice-cold  water  an  hour,  had  a  fifteen  pound 
basket  full,  and  a  string  hanging  to  my  belt  with  near  as 
many  more  on  it.  I  had,  I  thought,  enough  to  go  to  my 
cabin  on  Eagle  Lake  with. 

Just  then  I  heard  a  sharp  "hallo,"  and  looking  over  to 
ward  the  "carry"  I  saw  Bill  Wood — since  killed  in  the  war 
of  1861 — carrying  his  boat  over,  followed  by  a  thick-set  man 
about  my  own  size,  but  looking  near  a  century  older,  with 
his  bushy  grey  beard  and  hair,  and  I  walked  out  to  join 
them,  for  my  own  boat  lay  at  the  upper  end  of  the  carry. 

"Got  any?"  said  the  stranger  curtly,  before  Bill  had  a 
chance  to  say  who  he  was. 

"Some;  more  than  I  can  eat  for  supper,  I  reckon,"  was 
my  reply. 

"Yes;  pretty  fair  for  this  time  o'  year,"  said  the  stranger, 
looking  at  the  basket  and  string  carelessly. 

I  was  nettled  at  "pretty  fair"  only,  and  yet  I  had  near 
thirty  pounds  of  trout,  caught  within  less  than  an  hour. 

"Pretty  fair.     Can  you  do  better?" 

"Yes;  Bill  set  down  your  boat.  I'll  show  this  youngster 
how  to  lure  the  big  'uns." 

That  was  all  he  said,  and  he  took  my  rod,  that  I  had  not 
yet  unjointed,  put  on  a  double  leader  of  his  own  and  a  single 
hook  at  the  end  of  it.  I  had  been  using  two.  Wading  into 
the  water  just  as  he  was,  without  rubbers,  he  cut  the  red 
belly  fin  from  one  of  the  best  trout  and  put  it  on  his  hook. 
Casting  over  into  the  swiftest  water  of  the  rift  he  drew  the 
line  rapidly  up  stream  and  we  could  see  the  red  fin  leap 
every  now  and  then  clear  of  the  white  water. 

A  second  more  and  the  largest  trout  I  had  ever  seen  in 
those  waters  struck  and  was  fairly  hooked.  My  rod,  bought 
of  Conroy  as  imported  lancewood,  bent  nearly  double,  and 
then  I  saw  the  prettiest  display  of  science  I  had  then  ever 


—  112  — 

seen.  The  trout,  first  up,  then  down  stream,  here,  there,  and 
everywhere,  always  on  a  strain,  struggled  nobly  for  life  and 
freedom.  But  he  had  a  master  at  the  right  end  of  the  rod, 
and  in  about  ten  minutes  a  trout  weighing,  when  we  got 
home,  five  pounds  lacking  one  ounce,  was  secured. 

"Shall  I  keep  on,  or  will  this  do  as  a  specimen?"  asked 
the  stranger. 

"This  will  do.  I  couldn't  have  saved  him,"  I  said.  "And 
now,  have  the  kindness  to  tell  me  who  you  are?" 

"Me?    Oh,  I'm  only  Seth  Green." 

Only  Seth  Green!  I  had  heard  genial,  gifted,  skilful 
George  Dawson,  of  the  Albany  Journal,  talk  of  him.  Gen 
eral  F.  E.  Spinner,  then  I  think  in  Congress,  told  me  of  him 
— said  he  was  the  best  fly  fisherman  in  America.  I  grasped 
his  broad,  honest  hand,  looked  into  his  clear  eye,  and  a  love 
went  out  for  him  then,  which  in  all  the  years  since  has  never 
changed. 

Good  old  Seth  Green!  He  has  been  old  Seth  for  fifty 
years,  yet  he  is  younger,  sturdier  in  frame  and  in  heart  than 
are  two-thirds  of  the  youngsters  who  talk  fishing  and  ply 
the  rod  when  they  can  do  it  easily  in  waters  reached  by  rail 
and  stocked  for  the  benefit  of  lazy  boys. 

God  bless  old  Seth  Green !  He  has  done  more  for  fish 
culture  and  fish  information  than  all  the  rest  of  us  scribblers 
on  the  theme  in  the  country.  Long  may  his  hand  be  steady, 
his  eye  clear  and  his  heart  warm  in  the  art  he  loves  so  well. 
His  name  is  sacred  to  all  who  know  him  truly,  and  what  he 
says  about  fish  or  fishing  may  be  depended  on  faithfully. 

NED  BUNTLINE. 
New  York,  Feb.  14th,  1882. 

WHERE  TO   FISH   FOR  TROUT 

Yearly,  Uncle  Sam  receives  much  financial  benefit  in  the 
postage  line  through  letters  directed  to  me,  mainly  by  stran- 


gers,  asking  where  I  fish  or  where  they  can  go  to  fish  suc 
cessfully,  with  the  least  trouble  and  at  the  least  expense. 

Not  to  rob  Uncle  Samuel,  but  to  obviate  some  of  this 
trouble,  I  pen  this  article. 

To  men  ready  to  rough  it  and  go  out  of  the  regular  route 
of  tourists — men  who  can  tramp  through  the  woods  and  over 
the  mountains,  there  are  lakes  and  streams  yet  in  the  "North 
Woods"  of  Hamilton,  Essex  and  St.  Lawrence  counties,  New 
York,  which  are  seldom  fished  at  all,  being  hard  to  get  at. 
The  easily  accessible  lakes  and  streams  are  literally  fished 
out.  I  can  find  as  good  fishing  as  they  afford  within  forty 
miles  of  New  York  City,  in  little  brooks  never  thought  of 
by  anglers;  which  run  through  farms  into  the  Croton  Lake, 
and  elsewhere  near  at  hand. 

To  get  at  such  streams  as  I  first  named  write  to  Chauncey 
Hathorne  or  Charlie  Bennett  at  Raquette  Lake  Hamilton 
county,  or  to  Lon  Wood,  at  the  same  place,  and  you  will 
find  guides  who  know  just  where  to  take  you.  I  may  strike 
those  waters  this  spring — if  health  and  other  things  "jibe." 

My  favorite  stream  for  the  past  ten  years  has  been  the 
crystal  Beaverkill,  in  Ulster  county,  New  York.  It  is  clean, 
contains  trout  only — not  a  chub  or  eel  in  its  upper  waters; 
is  full  of  falls,  riffs,  and  deep  eddies,  and  a  man  who  knows 
how  to  fish  and  what  to  use  at  all  proper  seasons,  can  fill  a 
twenty-pound  basket  any  day,  by  working  faithfully.  He'll 
have  to  work,  though,  and  the  lighter  his  rod  the  less  his 
arm  will  ache  at  night.  I  use  an  Orvis  rig  out  and  out — 
the  best  I  can  find  anywhere.  My  rod,  a  split  bamboo,  is 
seven  ounces,  my  leaders  invisible  mist,  and  looped  for  the 
flies,  making  changes  easy  and  I  carry  his  patent  folding-net 
to  land  large  trout  with. 

To  reach  the  Beaverkill,  from  New  York,  take  the  Hud 
son  River  road  to  Rhinebeck,  cross  there  to  Rondout,  and 
go  up  the  Delaware  &  Ulster  to  Margaretville,  where  Jerry 
Ackerly  will  receive  you  at  the  best  hotel  in  Delaware 


county.  Thence,  Jack  Scudder  will  speed  you  over  the  hills 
to  the  Beaverkill,  where,  at  Tripps,  Jones,  Brothers,  Leals 
or  Weaver's,  you  will  find  as  good  accommodation  as  any 
true  angler  need  desire,  and  fair  sport. 

Whenever  I  am  in,  the  starry  flag  of  freedom  flies  from 
the  staff  at  Tripp's.  That  has  been  my  headquarters  for 
years,  but  either  of  the  other  places  named  are  good.  Be 
low,  Mrs.  Murdock  keeps  a  splendid  house,  and  there  are 
many  others  whose  names  I  forget,  who  will  "take  a  stran 
ger  in"  if  they  get  a  chance. 

Philadelphians  will  yet  find  trout  and  rattlesnakes  up  the 
Lycoming  Valley — especially  about  Trout  Run,  Red  Run, 
and  at  Ralston.  And  on  the  Erie  Railroad,  at  Narrows- 
burg,  Sullivan  county,  New  York,  at  the  famous  Murray 
hostelry,  you  will  have  fine  trout  and  black  bass  fishing, 
pointed  out  close  at  hand.  You  will  live  well  and  do  well. 
Ask  Rockwell.  If  you  wish  to  fish  to  music,  where  rattlers 
are  almost  as  plenty  as  pretty  girls,  stop  off  at  Mast  Hope, 
just  below,  for  a  day  or  two. 

This  is  a  brief  mention  of  places  with  which  I  am  fami 
liar,  that  are  easily  reached.  I  will,  in  another  number, 
point  out  some  more,  not  so  handy,  but  yet  accessible  and 
good  when  you  get  there. 

NED  BUNTLINE. 

(NOTE. — It  should  be  borne  in  mind  that  the  foregoing  graphic 
lines  were  cast  from  "Ned  Buntline's"  prolific  pen  nearly  thirty 
years  ago,  and  other  conditions  prevail  at  the  present  time.  The 
old-time  guides  have  gone  to  their  final  rest,  and  the  famous  hos- 
telries  of  other  days  have,  for  the  most  part,  given  way  to  larger 
if  not  more  congenial  summer  resort  hotels.  Palatial  "camps" 
are  now  to  be  found  in  the  once  remote  places  of  the  Adirondacks, 
and  angling  de  luxe  is  the  order  of  the  day  with  the  millionaire 
fly-casters. — F.  E.  P.) 

NOTES  FROM  THE  NORTH  WOODS 

Your  old  correspondent  and  good  old-time  angler,  "A. 
N.  C.,"  who  fishes  with  an  Orvis  rod,  as  doth  yours  truly, 
carries  me  back  to  very  happy  memories  in  his  "Then  and 


Now."  We  have  fished  in  the  same  waters  and  I  know  every 
guide  and  some  rather  slimpsy  ones  that  were  there  from 
1856  to   1861,  when  I  left  the  North  Woods  for  harder 
game  to  deal  with  than  wolves  or  panthers. 

Yes,  I  knew  Dick  Birch — a  better  guide,  hunter  and  fish 
erman  did  not  roam  the  woods  or  paddle  lake  and  stream.  I 
knew  all  the  Bennett  boys,  the  Woods' — almost  all  were  in 
my  employment  at  one  time  or  another. 

I  was  right  about  "Tallow  Lake."  I  changed  the  name 
to  Eagle  Lake.  I  was  the  first  settler  in  there  and  ought  to 
know.  Ordway  and  Phelps  had  a  small  clearing,  with  a  log 
hut  and  a  log  hay  barn  on  it,  that  I  bought.  No  one  ever 
wintered  there  before  me. 

As  to  Alvah  Dunning — God  help  the  poor  old  fellow — 
I  would  not  hurt  a  grey  hair  on  his  head,  if  there  are  any 
hairs  left.  He  used  to  annoy  me,  as  he  had  annoyed  others, 
and  I  quietly  let  him  know  that  there  was  a  law  of  self- 
defense,  that  ruled  even  in  the  wilderness. 

A.  N.  C.  is  probably  aware  that  I  named  Eagle  and  Uta- 
wanna  Lakes.  Utawanna,  in  the  Indian  tongue,  means  "Sunny 
Water." 

I  hope  to  go  there  this  summer  to  see  Chauncey  Hathorn, 
Edward  and  Charlie  Bennett,  the  Woods',  good  old  Sabatis, 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  boys,  and  girls,  too.  And  I'll  fish  for 
trout,  and  I'll  get  them  in  Minnie  Pond  or  somewhere  else, 
you  bet.  If  not  I'll  go  hungry. 

I  don't  sing  bass. 

The  largest  salmon  I  ever  caught,  I  got  on  a  trolling  line 
off  the  mouth  of  Minnie  Brook  in  the  upper  part  of  Blue 
Mountain  Lake,  west  side — just  inside  the  end  of  Long 
Island,  as  we  called  it  then.  It  weighed  twenty-four  pounds 
nine  ounces.  S.  Bennett,  from  the  Fourteenth  township, 
rowed  my  boat.  This  was  in  1858;  I  think  in  July.  Poor 
Si  went  down  for  the  old  flag,  I  heard.  Well,  a  good  many 
more  brave  boys  took  the  same  chances  and  went  the  same 
road.  Brave  Bill  Wood  was  one  of  them. 


When  I  go  in  I  shall  take  Glens  Falls  in  my  route,  and 
maybe  A.  N.  C.  will  join  me.  We'll  carry  in  to  Alvah  a 
"drop  o'  comfort"  and  tell  him  to  take  care  of  his  own  traps 
and  his  own  boats,  and  prepare  for  a  final  rest  in  the  happy 
hunting  grounds. 

NED  BUNTLINE. 

Eagles  Nest,  Del.  Co.,  N.  Y.,  March  28,  1882. 
FISHING  UP  STREAM 

My  Watsontown  friend,  "J.  R.  H.,"  who  likes  falling 
down  up  stream,  and  who  remembers  how  I  handled  the  rib 
bons  over  a  tamden  team  in  1856,  keeps  me  in  kindly  re 
membrance,  I  see.  Well,  it  is  all  right,  my  dear  boy — there 
is  no  accounting  for  taste,  as  the  milk-maid  said  when  she 
saw  a  man  kiss  a  cow.  You  fish  up  stream  and  I'll  fish 
down,  and  we'll  both  be  contented  with  our  catch.  I  am 
getting  old  and  lazy  and  carry  all  the  lead  I  ever  use  in 
fishing,  in  a  game  leg  of  mine,  which  I  didn't  have  when 
you  saw  me  first,  and  I  can  get  down  stream  easier  than  I 
can  go  up.  If  possible  I  will  try  some  of  your  streams  next 
summer,  J.  R.  H.,  especially  if  you'll  save  one  big,  wild 
trout  for  me  to  "come  down  stream"  on. 

I  don't  know  until  I  see  the  water  and  have  the  day 
what  I'll  fish  with — but  I'll  chuck  something  that  the  big 
trout  will  like.  Bet  your  corkscrew  on  that.  And  should 
you  incline  to  the  lovely  Beaverkill  I  will  lead  you  a  pleas 
ant  minuet  along  its  wooded  shores.  A  note  to  the  Ameri 
can  Angler  office  will  reach  me  wherever  I  may  be  wander 
ing.  And  with  a  God  bless  you  and  all  who  love  to  go 
a-fishing,  au  revolr!  NED  BUNTLINE. 

BLUE  MOUNTAIN  LAKE  AND   NED  BUNTLINE 

My  thanks  to  Ned  Buntline  for  his  reply  to  my  query 
about  the  size  of  trout  in  Blue  Mountain  Lake.  I  knew 
that  he  named  the  lakes  around  his  forest  home.  .  .  . 


Ned's  christenings  are  still  retained  as  well  as  vivid  remem 
brance  of  his  skill  with  rifle  and  revolver.  In  fact,  the  tales 
told  are  marvelous. 

He  used  to  ride  one  of  his  Indian  ponies,  on  a  run,  to 
ward  a  bottle,  suspended  from  a  limb  of  a  tree  by  a  string, 
and  firing  from  the  saddle,  break  the  bottle.  Now  you  will 
be  told  that  he  would  cut  the  string  every  time  with  pistol 
or  rifle  ball,  while  his  pony  was  running  and  the  bottle 
swinging.  More  than  once  I  have  seen  him,  on  his  occa 
sional  visits  to  this  place  for  supplies,  making  his  purchases 
from  his  horse's  back,  riding  into  the  various  stores,  and  dis 
mounting  only  when  he  had  ridden  up  the  hotel  steps  and 
day  Ned  entertained  at  dinner  Commodore  Gansevoort  and 
his  brother,  Lieut.  Gansevoort,  U.  S.  N.  As  they  stood  to 
gether,  about  the  same  size,  "bearded  like  the  pard,"  they 
formed  a  striking  trio.  An  old  fellow  remarked,  "There's 
three  of  the  handiest  men  with  weapons  that  ever  struck 
Northern  New  York.  Many  and  strange  were  the  tales  told 
of  Ned  Buntline  in  the  days  before  the  war,  and  one  always 
causes  me  to  smile. 

When  he  bought  "Eagle's  Nest"  there  were  two  large 
stacks  of  swamp  hay  on  the  place.  Soon  after  came  the  news 
that  he  had  burned  it  because  he  did  not  want  his  shooting 
box  to  look  like  a  farmer's  barnyard.  Near  where  I  sit 
hangs  a  souvenir  of  Eagle's  Lake.  It  is  a  single-bladed 
paddle,  presented  to  me  by  the  whole-souled  Mike  McGuire, 
one  of  the  best  of  guides.  It  is  made  from  a  black  ash  cut 
within  sight  of  Ned's  old  home  on  the  Eagle,  and  looks  fit 
only  for  fairy  hands  to  wield,  but  Mike  said  I  could  feel 
sure  it  would  not  fail,  and  so  it  proved  when  tested. 

Glens  Falls,  N.  Y.  A.  N.  C. 

NOTE — Mr.  A.  Nelson  Cheney,  whose  interesting  sketches  in  the 
various  sportsmen's  journals  were  usually  signed  "A.  N.  C.,"  was 
one  of  the  most  practical  writers  of  his  time  on  angling  and  fish 
culture.  He  is  remembered  and  his  memory  cherished  as  a 
thorough  sportsman,  and  an  able  writer. — F.  E.  p. 


CHAPTER^  TEN 

NED  BUNTLINE  AS  A  WRITER  OF  VERSE 


OLONEL  JUDSON'S  love  of  the  woods 
and  waters,  his  admiration  for  the  ever- 
varying  charms  of  Nature,  his  impassioned 
eloquence  in  speech  and  fervor  in  writing, 
all  denote  the  poetic  cast  of  the  eccentric 
novelist.  Few  perhaps,  even  among  his  admirers, 
are  familiar  with  his  glowing  stanzas — grave  and 
gay,  serious  and  sentimental — for  it  must  be  con 
fessed  that  they  were  for  the  most  part,  merely  the 
"unconsidered  trifles"  in  the  avalanche  of  literary 
work  which  he  poured  forth  with  amazing  vigor  and 
versatility.  With  poetic  gifts  of  a  high  order,  he 
chose,  and  no  doubt  wisely,  to  subordinate  these  and 
give  his  wayward  fancy  free  rein  in  a  direction  that 
assured  him  greater  fortune,  though  possibly  less  ex 
alted  fame. 

Of  his  poems  it  may  be  said,  "They  have  been  too 
ephemeral  to  stamp  themselves  deeply  into  the  pub 
lic  attention;  and  thus,  as  so  many  feathers  of  fancy, 
have  been  blown  aloft  only  to  be  whistled  down  the 


wind."  A  few  of  these,  however,  have  been  treas 
ured  as  charming  gems  of  verse,  notably  his  stirring 
lines  descriptive  of  "The  Eagle's  Nest,"  and  the  ex 
quisite  little  poem,  "The  Hills  of  Delaware,"  pub 
lished  in  former  chapters  of  the  present  serial. 

Ned  Buntline  was  a  man  of  strong  passions,  as 
variable  in  mood  as  the  aeolian  harp  in  its  tone,  and 
he  embodied  the  very  spirit  of  poetic  sentiment.  He 
preferred  the  solitude  of  the  wilderness  to  the  social 
forms  of  the  cities,  and,  as  he  often  said  with  en 
thusiasm,  found  more  peace,  happiness  and  unal 
loyed  pleasure  in  the  haunts  of  bird  and  beast  than 
in  the  midst  of  the  surging  tide  of  humanity.  He 
found  inspiration,  like  the  pastoral  poets  of  olden 
times,  "in  the  twinkling  of  half-hidden  brooks,  in 
the  gleaming  of  silver  rivers,  in  the  blue  distance  of 
mountains,  in  the  repose  of  sequestered  lakes;  in  the 
song  of  birds,  in  the  sighing  of  the  night-wind,  in 
the  fresh  breath  of  the  woods,  in  the  perfume  of  the 
hyacinth,  in  the  suggestive  odor  that  comes  to  him, 
at  eventide,  from  far  distant  undiscovered  islands, 
over  dim  oceans,  illimitable  and  unexplored." 

During  the  early  years  of  Ned  Buntline's  stirring 
career  the  stern  realities  of  life  occupied  his  atten 
tion,  to  the  exclusion  of  poetical  fancies,  but  when 
he  finally  found  rest  and  peace  at  his  home  in  the 
Hudson  highlands,  his  mercurial  spirit  often  found 
solace  in  spontaneous  rhymes  as  varied  as  the  lights 
and  shadows  that  surrounded  him.  The  lines  en- 


—  120  — 

titled  "March  Born"  may  be  given  as  characteris 
tic  of  his  serious  moods: 

Born  when  tempests  wild  were  raging 

O'er  the  earth,  athwart  the  sky, 
When  mad  spirits  seemed  as  waging 

Battle  fierce  for  mast'ry  ; 
Born  when  thunder  loudly  booming 
Shook  the  roof  above  my  head — 
When  red  lightning  lit  the  glooming 
Which  o'er  land  and  sea  was  spread. 

Life  since  then  a  constant  battle, 

Foes  ahead  and  foes  behind — 
Like  a  skirmish  line,  the  rattle 

Sweeping  up  on  every  wind — 
Clouds  and  shadows  ever  rapping 

All  the  paths  my  feet  before — 
Spent  my  soul  with  eager  mapping 

Plans  that  vanish  evermore! 

Age  is  coming  swift  upon  me, 

Comes  no  rest  with  all  these  years — 
Love,  though  truly  it  hath  won  me, 

Lessens  not  my  many  cares — 
Only  when  my  Maker  calleth 

Can  I  lay  my  burden  down, 
Then,  as  in  the  forest  falleth 

Stricken  oak,  my  work  is  done! 

In  1 88 1  Colonel  Judson's  home  was  darkened  by 
the  death  of  little  Irene,  a  bright  and  beautiful 
child,  the  idol  of  her  parents.  The  pathetic  lines 
published  in  the  Stamford  Mirror,  under  the  title  of 
"Our  Lost  Irene,"  indicates  the  deep  grief  and  deso 
lation  of  the  novelist: 


121  

The  long  days  come,  the  long  days  go, 

The  silent,  dreary  nights  as  well — 
They  bring  no  solace  for  our  woe, 

No  words  of  comfort  to  us  tell. 
The  light  which  once  upon  us  shone, 

The  music  which  so  sweetly  fell, 
Is  gone — alas!  forever  gone — 

We  only  know  her  parting  knell. 

Oh,  gloomy  day! — Oh,  starless  night! 

If  we  could  only,  only  dream ! 
In  fancy  see  one  ray  of  light — 

Of  faded  joys  feel  but  a  gleam — 
Could  hear  the  patter  of  the  feet 

That  to  and  fro  swift  used  to  go, 
We'd  bow  our  heads,  the  shadow  greet, 

And  kiss  the  Hand  that  dealt  the  blow. 

All,  all  is  still  but  throbbing  heart — 

Still,  dark  and  oh  how  desolate! 
Chide  us  not  that  the  hot  tears  start, 

And  choking  sobs  our  loss  relate! 
Alone! — our  worshipped  angel  gone 

To  kindred  angels  up  above — 
Alone — alone — we  weep  and  moan 

For  thee  IRENE,  our  precious  love ! 

Eagle's  Nest,  March,  1881. 

The  naturally  cheerful  and  convivial  character  of 
the  author  finds  expression  in  several  entertaining 
bits  of  verse,  illustrating  his  love  of  out-door  sports 
and  of  hearty  good-fellowship.  The  stanzas,  "At 
Home,"  are  of  this  nature: 


When  the  crisp  north  wind  is  blowing 

From  the  regions  of  the  pole; 
When  the  squirrels  cute  are  stowing 

Nuts  within  their  nesting  hole; 
When  the  song  birds  have  deserted 

All  the  thickets  on  the  hill; 
When  dead  leaf  from  branch  is  parted, 

And  the  ice-lock  chains  the  rill : 

Then  it  is,  in  sanctum  seated, 

With  our  rods  and  guns  in  sight; 
Joys  of  Summer  are  repeated 

By  the  voice  of  Mem'ry  bright : 
Then  it  is,  with  comrades  cheery, 

Hours  with  pleasure's  woof  are  wrought; 
And  true  hearts,  which  else  were  weary, 

Are  to  fond  communion  brought: 

Then  we  tell  our  woodland  stories: 

How  we  fished  and  where  we  shot; 
Revel  in  a  sportsman's  glories, 

Which  we  know  are  ne'er  forgot ! 
Catch  again  the  speckled  beauty, 

Giant  of  his  native  stream; 
Drink  to  man  and  manhood's  duty, 

And  of  loved  ones  think  and  dream. 

On  rare  occasions  Ned  Buntline  indulged  in  an 
amusing  burlesque  or  witticism,  and  his  sense  of 
humor  on  festive  occasions,  his  ready  wit  and  the 
ease  with  which  he  could  prepare  impromptu  verse, 
made  him  a  most  delightful  companion  at  club  gath 
erings  and  banquets.  An  admirable  little  hit  perpe 
trated  on  the  occasion  of  a  feast  upon  an  ancient 


-  123- 

fowl  is  given  herewith.     It  is  entitled  UA  Washing 
ton's  Birthday  Dinner": 

They  slew  a  gobbler,  grim  and  old, 

That  never  told  a  lie; 
They  used  a  hatchet;  fierce  and  bold 

They  saw  that  gobbler  die. 
They  boiled  it  long,  they  boiled  it  hard, 

Then  baked  the  "critter"  down. 
Four  hours  they  cooked — believe  your  bard — 

To  do  that  turkey  brown. 

With  oysters  fresh  from  Dorlon's  stand 

They  stuffed  the  ancient  fowl; 
With  butter  sweet  from  Elgin's  land 

They  basted  that  old  owl. 
'Twas  garnished  well  with  parsley  shred, 

And  backed  with  viands  rare; 
But  we  who  "chawed"  some  tear  drops  shed, 

While  others  loud  did  swear. 

They  said  on  far-off  Aarat 

Old  Noah  dumped  that  bird, 
And  all  this  time  it  took  to  fat — 

Perhaps  the  grumblers  erred ; 
But  this  we  know,  the  toughest  course 

We  e'er  had  tried  to  masticate 
With  jaws  once  used  to  mule  or  worse 

Was  left  upon  our  dinner  plate. 

Ned  buntline's  hours  of  relaxation  at  his  country 
home  were  characteristic  of  the  man.  As  before 
stated,  the  sports  of  the  field  claimed  the  greater 
portion  of  his  leisure  days,  but  a  careful  supervi- 


—  124  — 

sion  of  the  grounds,  the  blooded  stock,  and  all  the 
belongings  of  his  beautiful  home,  the  "Eagle's 
Nest,"  formed  a  never  ceasing  source  of  pleasure 
to  him.  At  sunrise  every  morning  it  was  his  custom 
to  call  his  little  son  with  the  cheery  words :  "Come, 
Eddie,  it  is  time  to  raise  the  flag,"  and  catching  the 
spirit  of  patriotism  the  lad  would  gleefully  assist  in 
running  up  the  stars  and  stripes  to  the  top  of  the 
tall  flag-staff  on  the  lawn,  where  it  might  be  seen, 
in  fine  weather,  for  a  distance  of  fifty  miles  up  and 
down  the  Delaware  valley.  Then  the  old  veteran 
would  usually  give  the  lad  a  short  drill  in  the  manual 
of  arms,  and,  after  a  morning  drive  along  the  moun 
tain  roads,  take  up  his  round  of  literary  work  for 
the  day. 


CHAPTER^  ELEVEN 

CLOSING  YEARS  OF  A  REMARKABLE 
CAREER 


OME  and  country  were  equally  reverenced 
by  Colonel  Judson.  His  early  youth  and 
years  of  mature  manhood  were  devoted 
largely  to  his  country's  service,  and  as  a 
partial  recompense  for  the  sacrifice  so 
freely  made  upon  the  altar  of  patriotism,  it  was 
fitting  that  a  happy  home  should  be  his  in  later 
years.  He  often  expressed  the  desire  that  the  even 
ing  of  his  life  might  be  as  peaceful  as  its  early  morn 
ing  and  meridian  had  been  tumultuous,  and  the  wish 
was  well  fulfilled. 

A  press  reporter  who  visited  the  Eagle's  Nest 
in  1885,  says  of  the  home  life  of  the  novelist:  "I 
found  him  pleasantly  surrounded,  much  as  I  had 
been  told.  He  is  now  sixty-three  years  old,  and  a 
young  son,  four  years  old,  is  the  light  of  the  house. 
He  is  probably  destined  for  the  army,  for  I  had  not 
been  in  the  library  ten  minutes  when  the  Colonel  was 
putting  him  through  the  manual  of  arms,  with  wood- 


—  126  — 

en  sword  and  toy  gun.  The  youngster  has  more 
playthings  than  any  other  boy  in  the  state,  and 
many  of  them  are  suggestive  of  mimic  battle.  'I 
mean  that  his  childhood  shall  be  happy,'  said  the 
Colonel,  fondly  regarding  him,  'as  mine  was  not. 
I  get  for  him  all  the  toys  any  boy  needs.  During 
my  childhood  I  never  had  a  kite  or  a  ball,  a  trumpet 
or  a  marble.  I  never  knew  how  to  play.  He  has  a 
trumpet  and  a  tremenduous  drum  and  a  banjo,  and 
this  house  is  musical,  for  besides  these  we  have  a 
violin,  and  two  guitars,  a  tambourine,  organette, 
xylophone  and  piano.  And  I  mean  to  bring  Eddy 
up  with  an  affection  for  the  old  flag.  Every  morn 
ing  he  helps  me  raise  a  twenty-foot  flag  on  that  tall, 
spruce  pole  on  the  lawn,  and  every  night  at  sun 
down  he  and  I  man  the  halyards  and  lower  it.  All 
day  every  pleasant  day  it  floats  when  I  am  at  home, 
and  is  visible  for  twenty  miles  up  and  down  the 
valley.'  " 

Colonel  Judson  suffered  acutely  and  almost  con 
stantly  from  his  many  wounds,  yet  with  character 
istic  spirit  he  would  not  ask  or  receive  a  pension. 
His  iron  constitution  gradually  gave  way  under  the 
physical  strain  endured  through  long  years,  and  his 
visits  to  New  York  City  became  less  and  less  fre 
quent.  He  was  a  terrible  sufferer  from  sciatica,  and 
finally  a  serious  affection  of  the  heart  came  on,  which 
baffled  the  skill  of  his  physicians.  With  unabated 
zeal  and  spartan  resolution  he  still  plied  his  pen, 
though  suffering  untold  agony,  which  he  strove  to 


— 127  — 

hide  lest  it  should  add  to  the  grief  of  his  wife  and 
child. 

While  in  this  condition  "Ned  Buntline"  prepared 
several  thrilling  bits  of  fiction,  notably  a  serial  en 
titled  "Incognita,"  written  for  the  New  York 
Waverly.  At  his  request  an  easy  reclining  easy 
chair  was  sent  him,  for  greater  convenience  in  writ 
ing,  and  in  acknowledging  receipt  of  this  he  wrote 
his  publishers  as  follows,  under  date  of  June  18, 
1886:  "The  chair  arrived  last  night,  and  I  write  my 
first  letter  in  it  this  morning.  It  is  a  great  relief  to 
me,  and  I  will  soon  get  used  to  working  in  it.  'In 
cognita'  will  grow  very  fast  now.  It  will  be  a  grand 
story,  full  of  mystery,  and  the  best  I  have  ever  writ 
ten.  It  may  be  my  last  serial,  and  I  want  the  Wa- 
verly  to  have  my  last  letter,  which  this  may  be  . 
.  .  .  Thanking  you  sincerely  in  taking  so  much 
care  in  selecting  the  chair,  I  will  well  repay  you  in 
good  work  on  'Incognita.'  ' 

Ned  Buntline's  last  contribution  to  the  sporting 
journals  was  a  brief  sketch  written  April  30,  1886, 
and  published  in  the  Turf,  Field  and  Farm  as  fol 
lows: 

Propped  up  in  my  invalid  chair  by  the  window  of  my 
sick-chamber,  where  I  have  battled  for  life  for  ten  long 
weary  weeks,  I  look  out  on  opening  leaves,  bright  apple  blos 
soms,  and  the  flashing  waters  of  my  private  trout  brook, 
while  for  the  first  time  at  this  date  for  years  I  see  no  sign 
of  snow  on  hillside  or  mountain.  To-morrow  a  hundred 
rods  will  bend  over  bright  waters  within  a  radius  of  four 
or  five  miles  of  me,  yet  I  must  look  sadly  on  my  pet  "Orv'.-s" 
in  the  corner,  and  let  the  split  bamboo  rest. 


—  128  — 

It  is  hard  when  sympathizing  visitors,  and  they  are  many, 
tell  me  the  streams  never  before  gave  better  promise  of  sport 
in  this  section. 

Stocked  liberally  by  John  N.  Bennett  and  John  Griffin, 
aided  by  myself,  the  west  branch  of  the  Delaware  and  the 
many  brooks  near  by  are  literally  alive  with  speckled  beauty. 
The  two  first-named  gentlemen  have  died  within  a  year,  and 
here  am  I,  on  my  "beams'  ends,"  looking  sadly,  yet  not  hope 
lessly,  on  dark  waters  ahead. 

Strange,  is  it  not?  We,  who  have  done  so  much  to  fill 
the  waters,  past  the  reward  of  labor  and  expenditure !  Telle 
est  vie. 

I  don't  like  to  tell  tales  out  of  school,  but  some  of  the  boys 
hunting  leeks  for  use  in  school  have  seen  "millions  of  trout," 
as  they  wandered  along  the  brooksides.  And  I  am  afraid — 
encouraged  by  my  physician — they  may  have  brought  in  one 
or  two  for  me  to  look  at.  Just  to  cheer  me  up,  you  know! 

I  can  write  no  more.  Hopeless  of  bending  a  rod  this  sea 
son,  if,  indeed,  I  ever  do  again,  I  am  faithfully  yours, 

NED  BUNTLINE. 

A  subsequent  letter  to  his  friend  Capt.  L.  A. 
Beardslee  ("Piseco"),  written  in  the  same  vein, 
gives  evidence  of  the  fraternal  spirit  of  genuine 
sportsmanship.  The  letter  bears  date  of  June  19: 

DEAR  OLD  PISECO:  Your  flattering  comparison  of  the 
hulk  propped  up  on  shores  to  do  this  writing,  and  the  gal 
lant,  yet  at  last  used-up  Pawhatan,  was  received  and  read 
with  a  soul  full  of  appreciation.  The  seamanship  which 
brought  her  safely  through  her  last  terrible  battle  with  the 
ocean's  might  and  the  tempest's  will,  can  only  be  appreciated 
by  a  sailor.  If  I  live  I  will  try  to  work  it  up.  I  am  now 
helpless — so  weak  I  can  hardly  keep  up  to  write  a  few  lines, 
yet  my  brain,  thank  heaven,  seems  clear.  If  I  were  only 
able  to  make  a  visit  from  you  a  pleasure,  how  glad  I  would 


— 129  — 

be  to  see  you  here.  My  horses  stand  idle  in  their  stalls,  my 
wife  is  by  my  bedside  night  and  day,  and  I  could  do  nothing 
to  give  you  joy  but  to  put  rod  and  flies  in  your  hand  and 
tell  you  where  to  go. 

Mrs.  Judson's  tender  care  and  constant  solicitude 
for  the  sufferer  soothed  many  of  his  hours  of  pain. 
To  a  friend  he  wrote :  "My  wife  attends  me  like  an 
angel  of  mercy.  But  for  her  gentle  care  and  solici 
tude  I  should  have  yielded  to  the  grim  messenger 
ere  this  time."  One  weary,  sleepless  night  he 
penned  the  following  lines,  full  of  tender  pathos : 

Counting  pulse-beats,   faint  and  slow, 
Counting  seconds  as  they  go — 

Oh!  how  weary  and  how  dreary! 
Throbbing  heart — full  of  pain — 
Eyesight  dim  and  aching  brain — 

Thus  passes  time  to  me. 

Drifting  on  the  ebbing  tide, 
Slow  but  sure,  I  onward  glide — 

Dim  the  vista  seen  before, 
Useless  now  to  look  behind — 
Drifting  on  before  the  wind, 

Toward  the  unknown  shore. 

Counting  time  by  ticking  clock, 
Waiting  for  the  final  shock — 

Waiting  for  the  dark  forever — 
Oh,  how  slow  the  moments  go, 
None  but  I,  me  seems,  can  know 

How  close  the  tideless  river. 

His  death  occurred  on  Friday  afternoon,  July  16, 
1886.  He  was  conscious  to  the  last,  and  his  last 


-130  — 

words  breathed  a  loving  farewell  to  wife  and  child. 
The  funeral  was  held  the  following  Sunday,  in  con 
formity  with  his  request,  and  was  attended  by  a  con 
course  of  friends  gathered  from  far  and  near.  "The 
remains  were  escorted  from  his  late  residence,  called 
by  him  'Eagle's  Nest,'  by  delegations  of  Posts  of 
Hobart,  Delhi,  Oneonta,  Jefferson,  Grand  Gorge, 
Rondout,  N.  Y.,  and  Philadelphia,  Pa.,  under  com 
mand  of  Captain  Clark.  The  old  flag  he  loved  so 
well  floated  at  half-mast  in  the  clear  atmosphere  of 
the  day  on  the  lawn  fronting  the  residence,  and  the 
spirited  steed  he  had  so  often  bestrode  walked  rider 
less  after  the  hearse.  A  large  number  of  citizens 
also  followed  the  mourners  in  procession,  and  the 
funeral  is  said  to  have  been  the  largest  ever  seen  in 
that  neighborhood.  The  body  was  taken  into  the 
Methodist  Church  where  brief  ceremonies  were 
held  by  Rev.  L.  E.  Richards,  Presbyterian  pastor. 
Not  half  those  in  attendance  could  gain  admittance. 
The  procession  then  reformed  and  proceeded  to  thje 
cemetery,  where  the  remains  of  the  gallant  hero 
were  fittingly  consigned  to  their  last  resting-place, 
consistent  with  the  ceremonies  incident  to  the  burial 
of  a  soldier  and  patriot,  the  sincere  mourning  of  sor 
rowing  relatives  and  friends." 

The  sentiment  of  regret  over  the  death  of  the  gal 
lant  scout,  sailor,  sportsman  and  novelist,  was  sin 
cere  and  widespread.  (His  many  noble  and  daring 
deeds  were  called  to  mind,  and  few  sacreligious 
hands  were  found  to  emblazon  before  the  public  the 


wayward  deeds  which,  in  his  career,  were  the  out 
come  of  passionate  impulse,  not  of  premeditation. 
The  Turf,  Field  and  Farm  paid  the  following  ju 
dicious  tribute  to  his  memory: 

Peacefully  at  his  home,  appropriately  christened  "Eagle's 
Nest,"  among  the  mountains  which  overlook  the  historic 
Hudson,  this  lion-hearted,  generous  and  remarkable  man 
bowed  his  head  and  gave  up  the  struggle  for  life.  The  brief 
message  which  came  to  us  over  the  wires  from  Stamford, 
last  Friday,  announcing  the  death  of  Edward  Z.  C.  Judson, 
pained  us  deeply,  though  we  had  been  prepared  for  his  de 
mise  by  the  closing  sentence  in  his  last  communication  to  us. 
It  is  now  over  two  years  since  the  rugged  old  sportsman 
ascended  the  stairs  to  our  office,  where  he  was  always  a  wel 
come  visitor.  That  was  his  last  visit,  we  believe,  to  the 
metropolis.  History  will  speak  of  "Ned  Buntline"  as  a 
dashing  middy,  a  brave  scout  on  the  frontier,  and  as  a  fer 
tile  writer  of  fiction.  It  was  as  a  sportsman  and  a  brilliant 
contributor  to  sporting  literature  that  we  knew  him  and  ad 
mired  him  most.  The  volumes  of  the  Turf,  Field  and  Farm 
contain  many  graphic  descriptions  of  the  chase  and  spark 
ling  tales  of  the  delights  of  angling,  from  his  pen,  and  it  was 
to  this  journal  that  he  sent  his  last  greeting  to  fellow-sports 
men.  It  appeared  in  our  issue  of  May  7  of  this  year,  and  it 
seems  fitting  that  we  should  publish  it  again  at  this  time. 
Between  the  lines  we  read  of  the  pain  and  disease  which 
was  slowly  but  surely  breaking  the  spirit  and  sapping  the 
strong  life.  The  closing  paragraph  was  sadly  prophetic. 
*  *  *  * 

Mr.  Judson  was  born  in  Philadelphia  about  1819,  his 
father  being  a  practicing  attorney  in  that  city.  Ned  had  no 
taste  for  the  dry  tomes  of  Blackstone  and  Kent,  and  com 
menced  an  adventurous  career  by  shipping  as  a  cabin  boy  on 
a  merchantman  bound  for  the  Pacific;  thence  to  a  man-of- 


—  132  — 

war,  where  by  bravery  he  earned  a  midshipman's  commis 
sion  from  the  hand  of  President  Van  Buren.  His  service  in 
the  Navy  was  brief  but  brilliant,  and  upon  leaving  the  em 
ploy  of  Uncle  Sam,  he  dashed  into  sensational  fiction,  and 
with  his  ready  pen  coined  the  dollars  which  his  generous 
hand  was  always  ready  to  bestow  upon  the  needy.  One 
weekly  paper  in  this  city  was  elevated  to  prosperity  by  pub 
lication  in  its  columns  of  "Ned  Buntline's"  serials,  for  which 
the  proprietors  paid  him  enormous  sums.  The  now  famous 
"Buffalo  Bill"  was  brought  before  the  public  gaze  through 
"Ned  Buntline's"  stories  of  life  on  the  plains,  investing  the 
daring  frontiersman  with  an  air  of  romance  which  still  clings 
to  him.  A  conspicuous  figure,  broad  of  shoulder  and  strong 
of  muscle,  his  countenance  spoke  of  indomitable  will  and  his 
keen  eyes  flashed  with  the  fire  of  genius.  Of  late  years  he 
mingled  but  little  with  his  fellow-men,  but  that  the  bonds 
of  friendship  were  not  loosened  by  this  was  evinced  upon 
his  funeral,  when  over  eight  hundred  mourners  followed  the 
remains  to  "Ned  Buntline's"  last  resting-place.  He  was 
buried  at  Stamford  on  Monday  last  with  the  honors  of  the 
Grand  Army  of  the  Republic,  many  prominent  members  of 
that  order  being  present. 

Dr.  Alban  S.  Payne  ("Nicholas  Spiccr"),  the 
popular  sporting  writer,  a  devoted  and  almost  life 
long  friend  of  "Ned  Buntline,"  gave  a  spontaneous, 
heart-felt  tribute  to  his  worth  in  the  journal  above 
mentioned.  His  words  echo  the  sentiments  of  nu 
merous  friends  of  the  deceased  sportsman: 

Your  last  issue  contains  sad  news  to  me.  I  find  my  dear 
old  friend,  Col.  E.  Z.  C.  Judson,  is  no  more.  He  was  a 
generous,  brave,  noble  man — a  remarkable  man.  Our 
acquaintance  commenced  in  the  office  of  the  old  Spirit  of  the 
Times,  and  antedates  forty  years.  In  all  that  time  our 
friendship  never  paled.  "Nick  Spicer"  always  felt  and  be- 


-133  — 

lieved  that  at  least  two  noble  hearts  loved  him,  one  was  our 
departed  friend,  Col.  E.  Z.  C.  Judson,  the  other  the  late 
James  Oakes,  of  Boston.  At  any  rate  Spicer  knows  that  he 
greatly  admired  them,  for  their  ripe  intellects  and  their  true 
manhood,  yes,  something  more  than  that — he  loved  them 
dearly,  deeply,  tenderly.  To  the  bereaved  home  folks  the 
homage  of  his  sympathy  goes  out  in  such  strength  of  feeling 
that  he  cannot  find  words  adequate  for  its  expression.  To 
the  dear  Old  Guard  whom  he  loved  so  well,  Col.  Judson's 
loss  will  be  irreparable,  for  the  noblest  old  Roman  of  them 
all  has  fought  his  last  battle,  quietly  folded  his  tent  and  gone 
to  rest.  I  send  you  the  last  letter  that  I  ever  received  from 
our  dear  old  friend.  I  prize  it  highly: 

Eagle's  Nest, 

Stamford,  Delaware  Co.,  N.  Y. 

DEAR  DOCTOR:  You  had  best  read  the  Turf,  Field  and 
Farm  more  carefully.  I  have  little  hope  of  ever  using  a  rod 
again.  I  have  been  eleven  weeks  in  bed  or  in  my  invalid 
chair,  with  a  combination  of  heart  disease,  valvular  obstruc 
tion,  etc.,  etc.  ...  I  have  been  sick  all  winter,  not  out 
of  my  chamber  or  able  to  walk  even  with  crutches  for  eleven 
weeks.  My  case  is  a  bad  one,  and  my  physician  with  coun 
sel  finds  it  hard  to  baffle.  I  can  write  but  little,  but  try  my 
best  to  keep  up.  God  bless  you  and  yours.  My  dear  wife 
nurses  me  like  an  angel  and  is  my  best  hope. 

Ever  yours,  JUDSON. 

It  is  in  answer  to  a  letter  of  congratulation  of  mine  to  him 
on  the  strange  supposition  that  his  health  had  improved  so 
much  that  he  was  "hoping  to  bend  a  rod."  I  should  have 
read  it  "hopeless  of  bending  a  rod,"  as  it  really  occurs  in 
the  Turf,  Field  and  Farm  of  the  7th  of  May.  But  the 
mistake  was  natural,  the  wish  was  father  to  the  thought. 
In  conclusion,  I  can  say  no  man  ever  visited  Virginia  who 
made  more  or  truer  friends  than  Col.  Judson.  Many  a 


—  134  — 

manly  eye  will  moisten  when  they  learn  of  the  death  of  their 
generous,  noble  old  friend,  but  none — no,  not  one — can  feel 
a  deeper  or  a  more  sincere  grief  for  the  death  of  their  friend, 
or  whose  heart  pulsates  in  a  stronger  rhythm  of  sympathy 
for  his  bereaved  family  than  does  the  heart  of  his  and  your 
old  friend. 

NICHOLAS  SPICER. 

In  the  patriotic  order,  Sons  of  America,  no  mem 
ber  was  more  widely  known  or  more  highly  appre 
ciated  than  Colonel  Judson.  He  had  been  one  of 
the  founders  of  the  order,  and  at  different  times 
filled  the  position  of  National  Vice-President  and 
National  Master  of  Forms  and  Ceremonies.  It  is 
natural,  therefore,  that  his  death  should  be  deeply 
deplored  by  the  comrades  of  that  organization,  and 
that  a  feeling  eulogy  should  be  given  at  the  hands 
of  Mr.  H.  J.  Stager,  editor  of  the  Camp  News,  the 
official  organ  of  the  order,  from  which  we  quote : 

We  are  deeply  grieved  to  make  this  sad  announcement  to 
our  brethren.  Since  February  last  Brother  Judson  has  been 
troubled  with  heart  disease  for  which  no  relief  could  be  ob 
tained.  He  was  aware  that  he  might  pass  off  of  the  active 
stage  of  life  at  any  moment  and  himself  arranged  many  of 
the  details  and  gave  directions  as  to  what  should  follow  his 
decease.  He  felt  a  willingness  to  be  freed  from  the  afflic 
tions  of  this  life,  his  only  solicitude  being  the  parting  that 
must  follow  with  his  dear  wife  and  son  upon  whom  the 
fondest  affections  of  a  warm  true  heart  were  freely  lavished. 
He  was  conscious  to  the  last  and  excepting  a  token  of  the 
warmest  love  to  the  dear  companion  of  his  best  years,  who 
was  ever  near  and  with  him  to  minister  to  his  every  want, 
he  repeated  the  words  so  close  to  his  heart  and  in  full  con- 


—  135  — 

sistency  with  the  object  of  his  whole  life,  that  "Americans 
must  rule  America." 

His  end  was  as  peaceful  and  gradual  as  the  sleep  of  an 
infant,  and  his  spirit  was  wafted  to  the  side  of  the  great 
patriots  of  our  land  who  have  gone  before  and  whose  deeds 
and  works  while  in  the  flesh  will  be  remembered  in  the 
brightest  pages  of  our  national  history.  For  many  years  he 
had  resided  at  Stamford,  surrounded  by  all  the  comforts  that 
man  can  enjoy,  and  ever  ready  to  do  his  utmost  to  advance 
the  interests  of  society,  and  to  do  his  part  to  benefit  man 
kind.  His  whole  life  was  devoted  to  the  service  of  his  coun 
try,  and  its  flag,  and  honor  his  deepest  solicitude  and  study, 
and  on  many  occasions  his  life  was  offered  as  a  sacrifice  in 
his  devotion  to  these  principles,  and  his  miraculous  escapes 
wonderful  almost  beyond  belief.  He  excelled  as  an  author 
in  fiction  whose  stories  have  amused  millions  of  readers,  and 
"Ned  Buntline"  is  known  all  over  the  world. 

He  took  a  highly  active  part  in  our  Order,  was  present  on 
several  occasions  as  a  delegate  in  the  State  Camp  of  Pennsyl 
vania.  He  held  membership  in  Camp  7,  Pa.,  Philadelphia, 
since  1868,  being  proposed  therein  by  the  writer;  Philadel 
phia  Commandery  No.  4,  and  also  belonged  to  the  Sons  of 
America  Post  No.  77,  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic,  in  Phila 
delphia.  He  organized  the  Order  in  the  States  of  Maine, 
New  Jersey,  and  Illinois,  while  traveling  with  his  "Scouts 
of  the  Plains"  combination.  He  helped  to  organize  the  Na 
tional  Camp  in  1872;  was  first  National  Vice-President  and 
then  elected  as  National  Master  of  Forms  and  Ceremonies 
in  1872-73.  He  was  ever  earnest  and  practical  and  never 
lost  interest  in  the  cause.  The  present  Red  Degree  ritual 
of  our  Order  is  the  work  of  his  pen  and  will  stand  as  an  ever 
lasting  monument  reflecting  his  fidelity  to  our  cause  and  de 
votion  to  true  American  principles.  He  was  liberal  with  his 
means  and  made  many  presentations  to  struggling  Camps  and 
members.  In  his  decease  we  lose  one  of  our  ablest  and  best 


—  136  — 

standard  bearers,  whose  loss  it  will  be  impossible  to  fully  re 
place. 

In  1871,  he  was  married  to  Miss  Anna  Fuller,  an  Ameri 
can  lady  of  his  native  town,  to  whom  he  was  most  earnestly 
devoted,  and  in  the  happy  union  of  these  years  a  daughter 
and  son  were  added  to  the  family.  The  daughter  died  in 
1881,  and  his  grief  in  this  loss  was  excessive.  He  now  sleeps 
by  her  side  where  he  had  erected  an  almost  perfect  image 
of  his  lost  child,  in  Italian  marble,,  to  mark  the  spot  of  her 
burial.  His  son  is  a  bright  promising  youth  of  five  years  who 
will  not  forget  the  patriotic  teaching  of  the  father  who  be 
gan  thus  early  to  instruct  him. 

Mr.  Charles  J.  Beattie,  a  prominent  member  of 
the  Sons  of  America,  said  in  presenting  appropriate 
resolutions  of  regret  and  condolence : 

Brother  President,  our  brethren  have  deputed  to  me  the 
melancholy  duty  of  preparing  and  presenting  to  this  Camp 
resolutions  of  regret  at  the  death  of  our  honored  comrade 
and  brother,  Colonel  Edward  Z.  C.  Judson,  of  Camp  7, 
Pa.;  it  is  a  duty  always  sad  and  mournful,  seldom  pleasant 
and  never  delightful  to  write  an  epitaph  or  pen  an  obituary 
resolution,  and  in  this  case  the  notice  of  the  hero's  death 
brings  with  it  not  alone  the  sorrow  but  the  sigh  and  the  tear, 
and  visits  every  heart  with  the  pangs  of  grief,  every  bosom 
with  agonized  feelings  of  loss  and  loneliness,  and  every  mind 
with  recollections  of  his  words  and  works  now  ceased  for 
ever.  The  fearless  heart  of  the  sterling  patriot  is  now  still 
in  death,  it  throbs  no  more  with  the  holy  emotions  that 
heretofore  thrilled  it  for  home  and  country,  his  immortal  pen 
that  aroused  sentiments  of  patriotism  in  every  land  is  laid 
aside  forever:  his  eloquent  tongue  which  always  uttered 
words  of  cheer  for  friend  and  brother,  for  flag  and  father 
land,  and  thundered  denunciations  against  our  country's 
foes,  is  now  quieted  in  deathly  silence;  his  sword  that  flashed 
brightly  in  the  line  of  battle  against  sedition  and  anarchy  for 


—  137  — 

a  united  nation  and  a  free  constitution,  is  now  forever 
sheathed ;  no  more  shall  he  visit  our  Camps,  below  his  earthly 
career  is  closed,  his  mission  of  usefulness  here  is  ended  and 
he  has  gone  to  join  the  brilliant  throng  of  patriots,  soldiers 
and  statesmen  on  the  deathless  side  of  time's  swift  flowing 
river,  and  to-day  he  is  an  initiate  in  the  Camp  of  the  Su 
preme  President  of  the  universe.  .  .  .  While  all  that 
is  mortal  of  cur  brother  rests  in  the  quiet  grave  at  Stamford 
his  immortality  has  now  begun ;  over  him  death  had  no  con 
quest,  the  grave  no  triumph.  Brethren,  let  us  imitate  his 
example,,  and  follow  in  his  footsteps;  let  us  devote  our  lives 
to  our  country  and  like  him  be  ever  faithful  through  life  and 
unto  death;  revere  his  memory,  remember  his  counsels,  and 
never  forget  his  last  words  solemnly  uttered  on  the  bed  of 
death,  "Americans  must  rule  America."  I  request,  Brother 
President,  that  all  arise  and  adopt  these  resolutions  in  silence 
by  a  standing  vote. 


In  preparing  the  present  series  of  fragmentary 
memoirs,  necessarily  very  imperfect  and  incomplete, 
the  writer  has  attempted  merely  to  convey  a  passing 
glimpse,  a  few  random  records,  illustrating,  yet  by 
no  means  giving  a  comprehensive  view  of  the  re 
markable  career  of  uNed  Buntline,"  as  a  sailor,  a 
soldier,  a  frontiersman,  a  sensational  novelist,  and, 
above  all,  a  devoted  lover  of  out-door  sports.  A 
careful  critical  resume  of  his  life  and  writings  would 
require  volumes  in  place  of  a  few  brief  chapters. 


-138  — 

When  a  complete  biography  shall  be  written,  if  ever, 
by  any  author  competent  to  do  justice  to  the  work,  it 
will  be  found  that  the  volume  here  presented,  far 
from  exaggerating  the  personal  courage  and  dar 
ing,  the  heroic  deeds  and  wild  adventures  of  this 
modern  knight  errant,  one  tithe  has  scarcely  been 
told.  A  detailed  biography  would  resemble,  in 
thrilling  interest,  the  adventures  of  the  Arabian 
Nights.  His  meteor-like  career,  however,  closed  as 
calmly  as  the  summer  eve  that  lulled  him  to  a  final 
rest. 

After  life's  fitful  fever  he  sleeps  well. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

It  has  been  estimated  that  the  literary  work  of  Ned  Bunt- 
line — his  serial  stories  and  miscellaneous  writings — if  col 
lected  in  book  form  would  fill  no  less  than  two  hundred 
volumes  of  good  size.  The  following  is  a  partial  list  of  his 
published  books  as  recorded  by  bibliographers: 

1.  The   Captain's   Pig. 

2.  Ella  Adams;  or,  The  Demon  of  Fire.     1863. 

3.  The  Rattlesnake;   or,  The  Rebel  Privateer.     1863. 

4.  The  Grosbeak  Mansion;   a  Mystery  of  New  York.     1864. 

5.  Sadia,   a  Heroine  of  the  Rebellion.     1864. 

6.  Life  in  the  Saddle;  or,  The  Cavalry  Scout.     1865. 

7.  The  Parricides;   or,  The  Doom  of  the  Assassin.     1865. 

8.  The   Volunteer;   or,   The   Maid   of  Monterey.     1865. 

9.  The  Beautiful  Nun.     1866. 

10.  Magdalena,  the  Outcast     1866. 

11.  Clarence  Rhett.     1866. 

12.  The  Battle  of  Hate;  or,  Hearts  Are  Trumps.     1867. 

13.  Quaker  Saul,  the  Idiot  Spy.     1869. 

14.  Red  Warrior.     1869. 

15.  Thanendenaga,  the  Scourge.     1869. 

16.  Red  Ralph,  the  Ranger.     1870. 

17.  The  Sea  Bandit.     1870. 

18.  The   Wronged   Daughter.     1870. 

19.  Morgan;  or,  the  Knight  of  the  Black  Flag. 

20.  Buffalo  Bill.     1881. 

21.  Wrestling  Joe.     1881. 


—  139  — 

22.  The  B'Hoys  of  New  York. 

23.  The  Buccaneer's  Daughter. 

24.  The  Conspirator's  Victim. 

25.  The  G'Hals  of  New  York. 

26.  The  Jew's  Daughter. 

27.  Mysteries   and  Miseries  of  New  York. 

28.  Three  Years  After. 

29.  The  White  Cruiser. 

30.  The  Black  Avenger  of  the  Spanish  Main. 

31.  The  Red  Right  Hand,  a  Tale  of  Indian  Warfare. 

32.  Hilliare   Henderson;    or,   The   Secret  Revealed. 

33.  The   Convict;    or,   The   Conspirator's   Victim. 

34.  Mermet  Ben;   or,  The  Astrologer  King. 

35.  The  Queen  of  the  Sea;  or,  Our  Lady  of  the  Ocean. 

36.  The  King  of  the  Sea;   a  Tale  of  the  Fearless  Free. 

37.  Luona  Prescott;   or,  The  Curse  Fulfilled. 

38.  The  Man  o'  War  Man's  Grudge;  A  Romance  of  the  Revo 

lution. 

39.  English  Tom;  or,  The  Smuggler's  Secret. 

40.  Saul  Sabberday;  or,  The  Idiot  Spy. 

41.  The  Wheel   of  Misfortune;   or,  The  Victims  of  Lottery  and 

Policy  Dealers. 

42.  Miriam;  or,  The  Jew's  Daughter. 

43.  The  White  Wizard;  or,  The  Great  Prophet  of  the  Seminoles. 

44.  Stella   Delorme;   or,  The  Comanche's  Dream. 

45.  Norwood ;   or,  Life  on  the  Prairie. 

46.  Cruisings  Afloat  and  Ashore;   from  the  Private  Log  of  Ned 

Buntline. 

47.  Ned  Buntline's  Life  Yarn. 

48.  The  Last  of  the  Buccaneers;   a  Yarn  of  the  Eighteenth  Cen 
tury. 

49.  Elfrida,  The  Red  Rover's  Daughter. 

50.  Sea  Waif;  or,  The  Terror  of  the  Coast. 

51.  The  Shell  Hunter;  or,  An  Ocean  Love  Chase. 

52.  Bill  Tredegar;  A  Tale  of  the  Monongahela. 

53.  The   Miner   Detective. 

54.  Darrow,  the  Floating  Detective. 

55.  Shadowed  and  Trapped. 

56.  Barnacle  Backstay. 

57.  Mountain  Tom. 

58.  Orthodox  Jeems. 

59.  Hazel  Eye. 

60.  Rover  Wild. 

61.  Sensation  Sate. 

62.  Rattlesnake  Ned. 

63.  Guliette,  th«  Waif. 

64.  Big  Foot  Wallace. 

65.  Harry  Bluff,  the  Reefer. 

66.  Navigator  Ned. 

67.  Wild  Bill's  Last  Trail. 


. 


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